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II 


CONSTTELO 


A NOVEL. 


BY OEORaE SAND. 


“The character of ‘Consuelo/ as developed in ‘Consuelo/ and its Sequel, ‘The 
Countess of KUdolstadV one of the noblest ever drawn. The character is an ideal 
one, in essence, and as such is as chaste, as pure, and as lofty a creation as we have 
ever loved and admired in all iictiou. The whole book is written with great pitwer 
and delicacy.’^ J^osL 

“The present is universally admitted to be the master-piece of one of the most re- 
markable of living novelists.’’ Atlas, 


“Her style is noble, and beautifully rich and pure. She has an exuberant imagina- 
tion, and with it a very chaste style of expression. She never scarcely indulges in 
declamation, and yet her sentences are exquisitely melodious and full. * * She 

leaves you at the end of oue of her brief, rich, melancholy sentences, with plenty of 
food for future cogitation, I can’t express to you the charm of them; they seem to 
me like the sound of country bells falling sweetly and sadly upon the ear.” 

Thackeray. 


“ She has naturalness, taste, a strong love of truth, enthusiasm, and all these 
* qualities are linked together by the most severe, as also the most perfect, harmony. 
The genius of Madame George Sand has an amplitude exquisitely beautiful. What- 
ever she feels or thinks breathes grace, and makes you dream of immense deeps. Her 
style is a revelation of pure and melodious foi'm.” Heine. 


“No man could have written her books, for no man could have had her experience, 
even with a genius equal to her own. * ♦ Both philosopher and critic must per- 

ceive that tliese writings of hex's are oiiginal, are geinxine, are tiansciipts of expe- 
rience, and as such fulfil the priniai'y condition of all literature.” 

George H. Lewes. 

“Thegx'andprosateur of the Nineteenth Centui'y.” Michelet. 

“ As a specimen of pni'ely artistic excellence, tliere is not in all modern litei ature 
axxything superior to tlie piose of Madame Sand, whose style acts upon the nervous 
system like a symphony of Haydn or Mozart.” John Stuart Mill. 


“George Sand Ixas been, beyond any possible comparison, the most influential 
woman-wi'itei* — pei'haps the most infliiexitial writer whatever — of our day. Carlyle’s 
influence can hax'dly be said to pass outside the limits of the English tongue: but 
George Sand’s power lias stamped itself deeply into the mind, the moxals, the man- 
ueis, the very legislation of every civilized country in the world.” 

Justin McCarthy. “Galaxy.” 


“Tn France, of all the novel wiiters of the last twenty yeai s, the most insti nctive, 
the most genuine, the most original is George Sand. ♦ * * Her best works remain, 

and will long remain, among the most chaiacteristic and the most splendid monument 
of that outpouring of Flench literature, the period of which happened lobe exactly 
C(»terminous with the duration of constitutional government in France.” 

Saturday Review, 

“The noblest mind of our epoch.” Eumond About. 

“ As an example of genius, harmonious and unrestrained, I do not know her peer 
•among contemporary names. And one of the most beautiful facts about her works is 
the dominance of the benevolent spirit. You recognize the maternal element as 
strongest. She yearns to do good, to influence, to ennoble, to stimulate; and by 
(Common consent, she is the noblest mind that, among European writers, has used the 
novel as a means of acting on the great reading public.” 

Eugene Benson. “ Galaxy.* 


“She is no stranger in the supernatural world, she to whom nature, as to a favored 
child, has unloosed her girdle, and unveiled all the caprices, the attractions, the de- 
lights, which she can lend to beauty. * * * The realm of fantasy has no myth 
^with whose secret she is not familiar.” ^ Liszt. * 


OOKSUELO. 

A NOVEL. 

By G-eorge S^isTE. 

AUTHOR OF “the COUNTESS OF RUDOLSTADT," “INDIANA,” “THE CORSAIR,” 
“FANCHON, the cricket; or, la petite FADETTE,” “the LAST ALDINI,” 

“ JEALOUSY ; OR, TEVERINO,” “ FIRST AND TRUE LOVE,” “ SIMON,” ETC. 


Translated from the French 

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. 


“ CoNSUELO,” by George Sand, stands in the very highest niche accorded to fiction. 
It is an artistic and ideal romance of colossal power and fascination. Treating largely 
of music and musicians, it has an interest for the cultured altogether peculiar to itself, 
while it is so intensely human and realistic in every detail that it, at the same time, 
appeals strongly to the feelings of the general reader. The plot is grandly woven, and 
many of the scenes are weird and thrilling almost beyond description. Consuelo is 
an angelic character, with a pure and lofty^ soul, yet she is constantly beset with 
temptations and surrounded by perils. She is an ideal creation, one of the noblest 
beings ever drawn, as chaste and elevated a woman as we have ever loved and admired 
in all fiction. The operatic scenes breathe the breath of real life, the scenes with 
Count Albert in the cavern of the Schreckenstein bewilder and astound, and the hero- 
ine’s flight to Vienna is picturesque and adventurous in the extreme. All the charac- 
ters seem real beings, and their diversity shows the great author’s remarkable knowl- 
edge of humanity. The whole book is written with rare power and delicacy. It is 
universally admitted to be the master-piece of one of the most wonderful novelists of 
the age. “Consuelo” should be read by everybody, as, no doubt, it will be in its 
present cheap but attractive shape. 


PHIL A D-ELP'HI A:c ® 

T. B. PETERSO'N^ jfe BROTI^ 
306 CHESTNUT STREET. 




COPYRIGHT: 

T, B. BBTEBSOInT &a BBOTUBB/S.' 

1882. 





GEORGE SAND’S BEST WORKS. 

'Each work in this Series is Unabridged and Complete. 


CONSUELO. A Love Story. By George Sand. Translated by 
Fayette Eobinson. One volume, duodecimo, Library Edition, 
cloth, gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, cloth, gilt, 
price $1.00, or same edition in paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE COUNTESS OF RUDOLSTADT. The Sequel to 
“CoNSUELO.” By George Sand. Translated by Fayette 
Eobinson. One volume, duodecimo. Library Edition, cloth, 
gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, cloth, gilt, 
price $1.00, or same edition in paper cover, price 75 cents. 

INDIANA. A Love Story. By George Sand. With a Life of 
Madame Dudevant (George Sand), and translated b^ George 
W. Eichards. One volume, duodecimo. Library Edition, cloth, 
gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, cloth, gilt, price 
$1.00, or same edition in paper cover, price 75 cents. 

JEALOUSY; OR, TEVERINO. By George Sand. With a 
Biography of the Distinguished Authoress, and translated by 
Oliver S. Leland. One volume, duodecimo. Library Edition, 
cloth, gilt, price $1.50. 

FANCHON, THE CRICKET; OR, LA PETITE FADETTE. 
By George Sand. One volume, duodecimo, Library Edition, 
cloth, gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, paper cover, 
price 50 cents. 

MONSIEUR ANTOINE; OR, FIRST AND TRUE LOVE. 
By George Sand. With Eleven Illustrations. One volume, 
octavo. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE CORSAIR. A Venetian Tale. By George Sand, author of 
“ Consuelo.” One volume, octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 


THE LAST ALDINI. A Love Story. By George Sand. One 
volume, octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 

SIMON. A Love Story. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo.” 
One volume, octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 


J Aboye boo^s *for all Booksellers and News Agents. 

Copies of any one or more, or all of the above books, will be sent to any 
.place-j postage ‘,pr^-pik^,‘ on recelpt'^f their price by the Publishers, 

& BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa, 


OONSUELO 


CHAPTER I. 

“Yes, yes, young ladies, toss your heads as much as you please; 

the wisest and best among you is But I shall not say it ; for she is 

the only one of my class who has a particle of modesty, and I should 
fear, were I to name her, that she would forthwith lose that uncom- 
mon virtue which I could wish to see in you ” 

“ In nomine Patris, et Pilii, et Spiritus Sancti,” 

sang Costanza, impudently. 

“ Ameii ! ” exclaimed all the other girls, in chorus. 

“ Vile slanderer,” said Clorinda, niaking a pretty little mouth at 
him, and giving the bony and wrinkled fingers, which the singing 
master had suffered to rest idly on the keys of the silent instrument, 
a little tap with tha handle of her fan. 

“ Go on, young ladies — go on,” said the old professor, with the re- 
signed and submissive air of one who for forty years had had to suf- 
fer for six hours daily the airs and contradictions of successive gene- 
rations of female pupils. “ It is not the less true,” added he, putting 
his spectacles into their case, and his snuff-box into his pocket, with- 
out raising his eyes towards the angry and railing group, “ that this 
chaste., this docile, this studious, this attentive, this good child, is not 
you. Signora Clorinda: nor you, Signora Costanza; nor you either, 
Signora Zulietta; neither is it Rosina; and still less Michela — ” 

“ In that case, it is I ! ” 

“ No it is I ! ” 

“ By no means ; it is 1 1 ” 

“ Tis I ! ” 

“ ’Tis I ! ” screamed out all at once, with their clear and thrilling 
vf)ices, some fifty fair or dark-haired girls, darting like a flock of sea- 
birds on some poor shell-fish left stranded by the waves. 

The shell-fish, that is to say, the master — and I maintain that no 
other metaphor could so well express his angular movements, his 
filmy eyes, his red-streaked cheeks, and more especially the innumer- 
able stiff, white, and pointed curls of professional periwig, the master, 
I say, comi)elled thrice to seat himself after he had risen to go away, 
nut calm and indifferent as the shell-fish itself, rocked and hardened 

( 21 ) 


22 


C O N S IT E L O . 


by the storms, had long to be entreated to declare which of his pupils 
deserved the praises of which he was usually so sparing, but of which 
he now showed himself so prodigal. At last, yielding as if wijth 
regret to the entreaties which his sarcasm had provoked, he took the 
roll with which he was in the habit of marking the time, and made 
use of it to separate and range in two lines his unruly row. Then, 
advancing with a serious air between the double row of these light- 
headed creatures, he proceeded toward the organ-loft, and stopped 
before a little figure who was seated, bent down, on one of the steps. 
She, with her elbows on her knees, and her fingers in her ears, in 
order not to be distracted by the noise, and twisted into a sort of coil, 
like a squirrel sitiking to sleep, conned over her lessons in a low 
voice, so as to disturb no one. He, solemn and triumphant, wdth leg 
advanced and outstretched arm, seemed like the shepherd Paris 
awarding the apple, not to the most beautiful, but to the most modest. 

“Consuelo! the Spaniard!” exclaimed all the young choristers, 
struck at first with the utmost surprise, but almost immediately join- 
ing in a general burst of laughter, such as Homer attributes to the 
gods of Olympus, and which caused a blush of anger and indignation 
on the majestic countenance of the professor. 

Little Consuelo, with her closed ears, had heard nothing of this 
dialogue. Her eyes were bent on vacancy, and, busied with her task, 
she remained some moments unconscious of the uproar. Then, per- 
ceiving herself the object of general attention, she dropped her hands 
on her knees, allowed her book to fall on the floor, and, petrified with 
astonishment, not unmixed with fear, rose at length, and looked 
around, in order to see what ridiculous person or thing afforded mat- 
ter for such noisy mirth. 

“ Consuelo,” said the master, taking her hand without further ex- 
planation, “come, my good child, and sing me the ^ Salve liegina* 
of Pergolese, which thou hast learned but a fortnight, and which Clo- 
rinda has been studying for more than a year.” 

Consuelo, without replying, and without evincing either pride, 
shame, or embarrassment, foUowed the singing-master to the organ, 
where, sitting down, he struck with an air of triumph the key-note 
for his young pupil. Then Consuelo, with unaffected simplicity and 
ease, raised her clear and thrilling voice, and filled the lofty roof with 
the sw’eetest and purest notes with which it had ever echoed. She 
sang the “ Salve Regina ” without a single error — without venturing 
upon one note which w'as not just, full, sustained, or interrupted at 
the proper place; and, following with unvarying precision the instruc- 
tions which the learned master had given her, fulfilling with her clear 
perceptions his precise and correct intentions, she accomplished, with 
the inexperience and indifference of a child, that which science, prac- 
tice, and enthusiasm had not perhaps done for the most perfect sing- 
er. In a word, she sang to admiration. 

“ It is well, my child.” said the good old master, always chary of 
his praise. “ You have studied with attention that which you have 
faithfully performed. Next time you shall repeat the cantata of Scar- 
latti which I have taught you.” 

“ Si, Signor Professor,” replied Consuelo — “ now' may I go?” 

“ Yes, my dear. Young ladies, the lesson is over.” 

Consuelo placed in her little basket her music and crayons, as welt 
as her black fan— the inseparable companion alike of Spaniard and 
V enetian — which she never used, although she never wont without 


CONSUELO- 


2a 


It. Then disappearing Ijehind the fretwork of the organ, she flew as 
lightly as a bird down the mysterious stairs which led to the body of 
the cathedral, knelt for a moment in crossing the nave, and, when 
just on the point of leaving the church, found beside the font a 
handsome young man, who, smiling, presented the holy water to her. 
She took some of it, looking at him all the time with the self-pos- 
session of a little girl who knows and feels that she is not yet a 
woman, and mingling her thanks and her devotional gesture in so 
agreeable a fashion that the signor could not help laughing outright. 
Consuelo began to laugh likewise; but, all at once, as if she had 
recollected thab some one was waiting for her, she cleared the porch 
and the steps at a bound, and was off in an instant. 

In the mean time, the professor again replaced his spectacles in his 
huge waistcoat pocket, and thus addressed his silent scholars: — 

“ Shame upon you, my fair pup.ils! ” said he. “ This little girl, the 
youngest of you all — the yo.ungest in the whole class — is the only one 
of you capable of executing a solo. And in the choruses, no matter 
what tricks are played on every side of her, I always find her firm 
and steady as a note of the harpsichord. It is because she has zeal, 
patience, and — what you will never have, no, not one of you — a con- 
science ! ” 

“ Ah ! now the murder is out,” cried Costanza, as soon as the pro- 
fessor had left the church. “ He only repeated it some thirty-nine 
times during the lesson, and now, I verily believe, he would fall ill if 
he did not get saying it the fortieth.” 

“ A great wonder, indeed, that this Consuelo should get on! ” ex- 
claimed Zulietta: “ she is so poor that she must work to learn some- 
thing whereby to earn her bread.” 

“ They tell me her mother was a gipsy,” said Michelina, “ and that 
the little one sang about the streets and highways before she came 
here. To be sure, she has not a bad voice; but then she has not a 
particle of intelligence, poor girl! She learns merely by rote; she 
follows to the letter the professor’s instructions, — and her lungs do 
the rest.” 

“ If she had the best lungs in the world, and the best brains into 
the bargain,” said the handsome Clorinda, “I would not give my 
face in exchange for hers.” 

“ I do not kn'ow that you would lose so much,” replied Costanza, 
who had not had a very exalted opinion of Clorinda’s beauty. 

“ She is not pretty for all that,” said another. “ She is as yellow 
as a paschal candle. Her great eyes say just nothing at all, and then 
she i‘s always so ill dressed! She is decidedly ugly.” 

“ Poor girl ! she is much to be pitied —no money — no beauty? ” 

Thus finished the praises of Consuelo. They comforted themselves 
by their contemptuous pity, for having been forced to admire her 
singing. 


CHAPTER II. 

The scene just related took place in Venice about a hundred 
years ago, in the church of the Mendicanti, where the celebrated 
master Porpora had just i-eheai*sed the grand vespers which he was 


24 


CONSUELO- 


to direct on the following Assnmptioii-day. The young choristers 
whom he had so smartly scolded were pupils of the state schools, in 
which they were instructed at the expense of government, and after- 
wai-ds received a dowry preparatory to marriage or the cloister, as 
Jean Jacques Rousseau, who admired their magnificent voices at the 
same period and in the same church, has observed. He mentions the 
circumstance in the charming episode in the eighth book of his Con- 
fessions. I shall not here transcribe those tw'o delightful pages, lest 
the friendly reader, whose example under similar circumstances I 
should certainly imitate, might be unable to resume my own. Hop- 
ing, then, that the aforesaid Confessions are not at hand, I continue 
my narrative. 

All those young ladies were not equally poor. Notwithstanding the 
strictness of the administration, it is certain that some, gained ad- 
mission, to whom it was a matter of speculation rather than of need 
to receive an artistic education at the expense of the republic. For 
this reason it was that some permitted themselves to forget the sacred 
laws of equality, thanks to which, they had been enabled to take 
their seats clandestinely along with their poorer sisters. All, there- 
fore, did not fulfil the intentions of the austere republic respecting 
their future lot. From time to time there were numbers who, having 
received their gratuitous education, renounced their dowry to seek a 
more brilliant fortune elsewhere. The administration, seeing that 
this was inevitable, had sometimes admitted to the course of instruc- 
tion the children of poor artists, whose wandering existence did not 
permit them a long stay in Venice. Among this number was the 
little Consuelo, who was born in Spain and had come thence to Italy 
by the route of St. Petersburg, Constantinople, Mexico, Archangel, 
or any other still more direct, after the eccentric fashion of the 
gipsies. 

Nevertheless, she hardly merited this appellation: for she was 
neither Hindoo nor gipsy,- any more than of any of the tribes of 
Israel. She w^as of good Spanish blood — doubtless w'ith a tinge of 
the Moresco; and though somewhat swarthy, she had a tranquillity 
of manner which was quite foreign to any of the wandering races. I 
do not wish to say anything ill of the latter. If 1 had invented the 
character of Consuelo, I do not say but that I would have traced her 
parentage from Israel, or even farther; but she was altogether, as 
everything about her organization betrayed, of the family of Ishmael. 
To be sure I never saw her, not being a century old, but I was told 
so and I needs must repeat it. She had none of the feverish petu- 
lance. alternated by fits of apathetic langucxr, wdiich distinguishes the 
zincjarella; neither had she the insinuating curiosity nor the front- 
less audacity of Hebrew mendicancy. She w^as calm as the water of 
the lagunes, and at the same time active as the light gondolas that 
skimmed along their surface. 

As she was growing rapidly and as her mother w^as very poor, her 
clothes were always a year too short, wdiich gjive to her long legs of 
fourteen years’ growth, accustomed to show themselves in public, a 
sort of savage grace which one was pleased and at the same time 
sorry to see. Whether her foot was large or not, it was impossible to 
say, her shoes were so bad. On the other hand, her figure, confined 
in narrow stays ripped at every seam, was elastic and flexible as a 
palm-tree, but without form, fulness, or attraction. She, poor girl! 
thought nothing about it, accustomed as she was to hear herself 


CONSUELO. 


25 


called a gipsy and a waiidei-er by the fair daughters of the Adriatic. 
Her face was round, sallow, a!id insignificant, and Avould have struck 
nohod,v, if her short thick hair fastened behind lier ears, and at the 
same time her serious and indifferent demeanor, had not given her a 
singularity of aspect which was hut little attractive. Faces which do 
not please at first, by degrees lose still more the power of pleasing. 
The beings to whom they belong, indifferent to others, become so to 
themselves, and assume a negligence of aspect which repels more and 
more. On the contrary, beauty observes, admires, and decks itself as 
it were in an imaginary mirror which is always before its eyes. Ugli- 
ness forgets itself and is passed by. !N'evertheless, there are two sorts 
of ugliness; one which suffers, and protests against the general disap- 
probation by habitual rage and envy — that is the true, the only ugli- 
ness. The other, ingenuous, heedless, which goes quietly on its way, 
neither inviting nor shunning comparisons, and which wins the heart 
while it sliocks the sense — such was the ugliness of Consuelo. Those 
Avho were sufficiently generous to iriterest themselves about her, at 
first regretted that she was not pretty; and then correcting them- 
selves, and patting her head with a familiarity which beauty does not 
permit, added : “ After all, you are a good creature ; ” and Consuelo 
was perfectly satisfied, although she knew very well that that meant, 
“ You are nothing more.” 

In the mean time, the young and handsome signor who had offered 
her the holy water at the font, stayed behind till he had seen all the 
scholars disappear. He looked at them with attention, and when 
Clorinda, the handsomest, passed near him, he held out his moistened 
fingers that he might have the pleasure of touching hers. The young 
girl blushed with pride, and passed on, casting as she did so, one of 
those glances of shame mixed with boldness, which are expressive 
neither of self-respect nor modesty. 

As soon as they had disappeared in the interior of the convent, the 
gallant patrician returned to the naA^e, and addressed the preceptor 
who was descending more slowly the steps of the tribune. 

“ Corpo di Bacco ! dear maestro,” said he, “ will you tell me which 
of your pupils sang the ‘ Salve Regina f ’ ” 

“And why so anxious to know. Count Zustiniani ?” asked the pro- 
fessor, accompanying him out of the wliurch. 

“ To compliment you on your pupil,” replied the patrician. “ Y^oii 
know how long I have attended vespers, and even the exercises; for 
you are aAvare how very fond I am of sacred music. Well, this is the 
first time that I have lieard Pergolese sung in so perfect a manner, 
and as to the voice, it is the most beautiful that I have ever listened 
to.” 

“ I believe it well,” replied the professor, inhaling a large pinch of 
snuff with dignity and satisfaction. 

“ Tell me then the name of this heavenly creature who has thrown 
me into such an ecstacy. In spite of your severity and your continual 
fault-finding, you have created .the best school in all Italy. Your 
choruses are excellent, and your solos very good ; but your music is so 
severe, so grand, that young girls can hardly be expected to express 
its beauties.” 

“ They do not express them,” said the professor mournfully, “ be- 
cause they do not feel them. Good A'oices, God be thanked, we do 
not Avant; but as for a good musical organization, alas, it is hardly tc 
be met with ! ” 


26 


C () N S U E L O . 


‘‘ You possess at least one admirably endowed. Her organ is mag- 
nificent, her sentiment perfect, her skill remarkable — Jiaine lier, 
then.” 

“Is it not so?” said the professor, evading the question; “ did it 
not delight you? ” 

“ It took my heart by storm — it even drew tears from me — and that 
by means so simple, combinations so little sought after, that at first I 
could hardly understand it. Then I remembered what you had so 
often told me touching your divine art, my dear master, and for the 
first time I understood how much you were in the right.” 

“And what did I say to you?” said the maestro, with an air of 
triumph. 

“You told me,” replied the count, “ that simplicity is the essence 
of the great, the true, the beautiful in art.” 

“ I also told you that there was often much to observe and applaud 
in the clever, and brilliant, and well combined.” 

“Doubtless; but between these secondary qualities and the true 
manifestation of genius, there was an abyss, you said. Very well, deal 
maestro : your cantatri'ce is alone on one side while all the rest are on 
the other.” 

“It is not less true than well expressed,” observed the professor, 
rubbing his hands. 

“ Her name? ” replied the count. 

“Whose name?” rejoined the malicious professor. 

“ Oh, per Bio Santo ! that of the siren whom I have just been 
hearing.” 

“ What do you want with her name. Signor Count ? ” replied For-, 
pora, in a tone of severity. 

“ Why should you wish to make a secret of it, maestro? ” 

“ I will tell you why, if you will let me know what object you have 
in finding out.” 

“ Is it not a natural and irresistible feeling to wish to see and to 
know the objects of our admiration? ” 

“ Ah ! that is not your only motive. My dear Count, pardon that I 
thus contradict you. You are a skilful amateur and a profound con- 
noisseur in music, as everybody knows; but you are, over and above 
all, proprietor of the theatre of San Samuel. It is your glory and your 
interest alike, to encourage the loftiest talent and the finest voices of 
Italy. You know that our instruction is good, and that with us alone 
those studies are pursued which form great musicians. You have 
a'ready carried off Corilla from me, as she will one day be carried off 
from you by an engagement in some other theatre; so you are come 
to spy about, to see if you can’t get a hold of some other Corilla— if, 
indeed, we have formed one. That is the truth. Signor Count, you 
must admit.” 

“ And were it even so, dear maestro,” replied the count, smiling, 
“ what would it signify to you?— where is the harm ? ” 

“ It is a great deal of harm. Signor Count. Is it nothing to corrupt, 
to destroy these poor creatures ? ” 

“ Ha! my most austere professor, how long have you been the guar- 
dian angel of their frail virtues?” 

“I know very well. Signor Count, I have nothing to do with them, 
except as regards their talent, wliich you disfigure, and disgrace in 
your theatres by giving them inferior music to sing. Is it not a sorrow 
—is it not a sin — to see Corilla, who was just beginning to understand 


C O N S U E LO 


2T 


our serious art, descend from the sacred to the profane — from prayer 
to badinage — from the altar to the boards — from the sublime to the 
absurd — from Allegri and Palestrina to Albinoni and the barber Apol- 
lini? ” 

“ So you refuse, in your severity, to name a girl respecting whom I 
can have no intention, seeing that I do not know whether she has 
other necessary qualifications for the theatre?” 

“ I absolutely refuse.” 

“ And do you suppose I shall not find it out? ” 

“Alas! you will do so if you are bent upon it, but I shall do my 
utmost to prevent you from taking her from us.” 

“ Very well, maestro, you are half conquered, for I have seen her — 
I have divined your mysterious divini'ty.” 

“ So, so,” replied the master, with a reserved and distrustful air; 
“ are you sure of that? ” 

“ My eyes and my heart have alike revealed her to me; and, that 
you may be convinced, 1 shall describe her to you. She is tall — taller, 
1 think, than any of your pupils — fair as the s!iow on Friuli, and rosy 
as the dawn of a summer morn ; she has golden hair, azure eyes, an 
exquisitely rounded form, with a ruby on her finger which burned my 
hand as I touched it, like sparks from a magic fire.” 

“ Bravo! ” exclaimed Porpora, with a cunning air; “ in that case I 
have nothing to conceal. The name of your beauty is Clorinda. Go 
and pay your court to her; gain her over with gold, with diamonds, 
and gay attire. You wull easily conclude an engagement with her. 
She will help you to replace Gorilla; for the public of your theatre al- 
ways prefer fine shoulders to sweet sounds, flashing eyes to a lofty 
intellect.” 

“ Am I then mistaken, my dear maestro ? ” said the count, a little 
confused ; “ and is Clorinda but a common-place beauty ? ” 

“ But suppose my siren, my divinity, my angel, as you are pleased 
to call her,” resumed the maestro, maliciously, “ was anything but a 
beauty ? ” 

“ If she be deformed, I beseech you not to name her, for my illusion 
would be too cruelly dissipated. If she were only ugly, I could still 
adore her: but I should not engage her for the theatre, because talent 
without beauty is a misfortune, a struggle, a perpetual torment for a 
woman. What are you looking at, maestro, and why do you pause ? ” 

“ Why? because w'e are at the water-steps, and I see no gondola. 
But you. Count, what do you look at? ” 

“ I was looking to see if that young fellow on the steps there, beside 
that plain little girl, w^as not my protege, Anzoleto, the handsomest 
and most intelligent of all our little plebeians. Look at him, dear 
maestro. Do you not, like me, feel interested in him ? That boy has 
the sweetest tenor in Venice, and he is passionately fond of music, for 
W'hich he has an incredible aptitude. I have long wished to talk to 
you about it, and to ask you to give him lessons. I look upon him as 
the future support of my theatre, and hope in a few years to be repaid 
tor all my trouble. Hola, Zoto ! come hither, my lad, that I may pre- 
sent you to the illustrious master Porpora.” 

Anzoleto drew his naked legs out of the water, where they hung 
carelessly, while he amused himself stringing those pretty shells which 
in Venice are poetically termed fiori di mare. His only garments were 
a pair of w^ell-worn pantaloons and a fine shirt, through the rents of 
which one could see his white shoulders, modelled like those of a 


28 


CONSUELO 


youthful Bacchus. He had all the grace and beauty of a young Faun^ 
chiselled in the palmiest days of Grecian art; and his features dis- 
played that singular union, not unfrequent in the creation of Grecian 
statuary, of careless irony with meditative sadness. His fine fair hair, 
somewhat bronzed by the sun, clustered in Antinbus-like curls about 
his alabaster neck; his features were regular and beautifully formed; 
but there was something bold and forward in the expression of his 
jet-black eyes which displeased the maestro. The boy promptly rose 
when he heard the voice of Zustiniani, pitched his shells into the lap 
of the little girl beside him, who without raising her eyes w'ent on with 
her occupation of stringing them along with golden beads, and com- 
ing forward, kissed the count’s hand, after the fashion of the country. 

“ Upon my word, a handsome fellow! ” said the professor, tapping 
him gently on the cheek; “ but he seems occupied with amusements 
rather childish for his time of life ; he is fully eighteen years old, is he 
not?” 

“Nineteen shortly, Sior Profesor” replied Anzoleto, in the Vene- 
tian dialect; “ but if I amuse myself with shells, it is to help little 
Consuelo here to make her necklaces.” 

“ Consuelo,” said the master, advancing towards his pupil with the 
count and Anzoleto, “ I did not imagine that you cared for ornaments.” 

“ Oh, it is not for myself. Signor,” replied Consuelo, rising cau- 
tiously to prevent the shells falling from her lap ; “ I make them for 
sale, i’ll order to procure rice and Indian corn.” 

“ She is poor, and supports her mother,” said Porpora. “ Listen, 
Consuelo : should you find yourselves in any difficulty, be sure to come 
and see me ; but I absolutely forbid you to beg, remember.” 

“Oh, you need not forbid her, Sior Profesor’’ replied Anzoleto, 
with animation ; “ she will never do so ; and, besides, I would prevent 
her.” 

“ But you have nothing,” said the count. 

“Nothing but your liberality, Eccellenza; but we share together, 
the little one and myself.” 

“ She is a relative then ! ” 

“ No ; she is a stranger — it is Consuelo.” 

“ Consuelo! what a singular name! ” said the count. 

“A beautiful name, Eccellenza,” resumed Anzoleto; “it means 
Consolation.” 

“ Oh, indeed ? She is your friend then, it seems ? ” 

“ She is my betrothed, Signor.” 

“ So soon ? Such children ! to think of marriage already ! ” 

“ We shalj marry on the day that you may sign my engagement at 
San Samuel, Eccellenza.” 

“ In that case you will have to w^ait a long time, my little ones.” 

“ Oh, we shall wait,” replied Consuelo, with the cheerful gaiety of 
innocence. 

The count and the maestro amused themselves for some time longer 
with the frank remarks and repartees of the young couple ; then, hav- 
ing arranged that Anzoleto should give the professor an opportunity 
of hearing his voice in the morning, they separated, leaving him to 
his serious occupations. 

“ What do you think of that little girl? ” said the professor to Zus- 
tiniani. 

“ I saw her but ai instant, and I think her sufficiently ugly to jus- 
tify the maxim, that in the eyes of a youth of eighteen every woman 
is handsome.” 


CONSUELO. 


29 

Very good,” rejoined the professor; “now permit me to inform 
you that your divine songstress, your siren, your mysterious beauty, 
was no other than Consuelo.” 

“ What! that dirty creature? — that dark and meagre grasshopper? 
Impossible, maestro.” 

“No other. Signor Count. “ Would she not make a fascinating 
prima donna f ” 

The count stopped, looked back, and clasping his hands while he 
surveyed Consuelo at a distance, exclaimed in mock despair, “ Just 
Heaven! how canst thou so err as to pour the fire of genius into 
heads so poorly formed ! ” 

“ So you give up your culpable intentions ? ” said the professor. 

“ Most certainly.” 

“ You promise me?” added Porpora. 

“ Oh, I swear it,” replied the count. 


CHAPTER III. 

Born in sunny Italy, brought up by chance, like a seabird sporting 
on its shores, poor, an orphan, a castaway, and nevertheless happy in 
the present and confiding in the future, foundling as he doubtless v/as 
— Anzoleto, the handsome youth of nineteen, who spent his days 
with little Consuelo, in perfect freedom on the footways of Venice, 
was not, as might be supposed, in his first love. Too early initiated, 
he would perhaps have been completely corrupted'*’aud worn out, had 
he dwelt in our gloomy climate, or had Nature endowed him with a 
feebler organization. But early developed and destined to a long and 
powerful career, his heart was pure, and his senses were restrained by 
his will. He had met the little Spaniard by chance, singing hymns 
before the Madonette; and for the pleasure of exercising his voice he 
had joined her for hours together beneath the stars. Then they met 
upon the sands of the Lido to gather shell-fish, which he ate, and 
which she converted into chaplets and other ornaments. And then 
again they had met in the churches, where she praj^ed with all her 
heart, and where he gazed with all his eyes at the fine ladies. In 
all these interviews Consuelo had appeared to him so good, so sweet, 
so obliging, and so gay, that she had become his inseparable friend 
and companion — he knew not very well how or why. Anzoleto had 
known love’s rapture only. He was attached for Consuelo; and as he 
belonged to a country and a people where passion reigns over every 
other feeling, he knew no other name for this attachment than that 
of love. Consuelo admitted this mode of speaking after she had ad- 
dressed Anzoleto as follows : — “ If you are my lover, it is then with 
the intention of marrying me?” To which he replied — “Certainly, 
if you wish it, we shall marry each other.” From that moment it 
was a settled affair. Possibly Anzoleto was amusing himself, but to 
Consuelo it was a matter of firm conviction. Even already his 
young heart experienced those contradictory and complicated emo- 
tions which agitate and discompose the existence of those who love 
too early. 

Given up to violent impulses, greedy of pleasure, loving only what 


30 


CON SUELO. 


promoted his happiness, hating and avoiding everything which op 
posed his gratifications, at heart an artist — that is to say, feeling and 
revelling in life with frightful intensity — he soon found that his tran- 
sient attachments imposed on him the sufferings and dangers of a pas- 
sion which he did not really feel ; and he experienced the want of 
sweet companionship, and of a chaste and tranquil outlet to his feel- 
ings. Then, without understanding the charm which drew him to 
Consuelo — having little experience of the beautiful — hardly knowing 
whether she was handsome or ugly — joining for her sake in amuse- 
ments beneath his age — he led with her in public, on the marble 
floors, and on the waters of Venice, a life as happy, as pure, as retired, 
and almost as poetic, as that of Paul and Virginia in the recesses of 
the forest. Although they enjoyed unrestrained liberty — no watch- 
ful, tender parents to form them to virtue — no devoted attendant to 
seek them and bring them back to the bosom of their homes — not 
even a dog to wain them of danger — they never experienced harm. 
They skimmed over the waters of the lagunes in all times and sea- 
sons in their open boat, without oars or pilot; they wandered over 
the marshes without guide, without watch, and heedless of the rising 
waters; they sang before the vine-covered chapels at the corners of 
the streets, without thinking of the hour, and sometimes with no 
other couch than the white tiles, still warm with the summer rays. 
They paused before the theatre of Punchinello, and followed with 
rivetecl attention the fantastic drama of the beautiful Corisanda, queen 
of the puppet show, without thinking of their breakfast, or the little 
probability there was of supper. They enjoyed the excesses of the 
carnival, he with his coat turned inside out, she with a bunch of old 
ribbons placed coquettishly over her ear. They dined sumptuously 
— sometimes on the balustrades of a bridge or on the steps of a palace 
— on shell-fish, fennel stalks, and pieces of citron. In short, they led 
a free and joyous life, without incurring more risk, or feeling more 
emotion, than might have been experienced by two young people of 
the same age and sex. Days, years passed away. Anzoleto formed 
other connections, while Consuelo never imagined that he could love 
any one but her. She became a young woman without feeling it nec- 
essary to exercise any further reserve with her betrothed ; while he 
saw her undergo this transformation without feeling any impatience, 
or desiring to change this intimacy, free as it was at once from scru- 
ple, mystery, or remorse. 

It was already four years since Professor Porpora and Zustiniani 
had mutually introduced their little musicians, and during this period 
the count had never once thought of the young chorister. The pro- 
fessor had likewise forgotten the handsome Anzoleto, inasmuch as he 
had found him endowed with none of the qualities desirable in a 
pupil — to wit, a serious, patient disposition, submission to his teacher, 
and complete absence of all musical studies before the period of his 
instruction. “ Do not talk to me,” said he, “ about a pupil whose 
mind is anythiuig else than a tabula rasa, or virgin wax, on which I 
am to make the first impression. I cannot afford to give up a year to 
unteach what has been learned before. If you want me to write 
give nie a clear surface, and that too of a good quality. If it be too 
hard I can make no impression on it; if too soft, I shall destroy it at 
the first stroke.” In short, although he acknowledged the extraordi- 
nary talents of the young Anzoleto, he told the count with some tem- 
per and ironical humility, at the end of his first lesson, that his 


CONSUELO 


ai 

method was not adapted to a pupil so fiir advanced, and that a master 
could only embarrass and retard the natural progress and invincible 
development of so superior an organization. 

The count sent his protege to Professor Mellifioi-e, who, with rou- 
lades and cadences, modulations and trills, so developed his brilliant 
(pialities, that at twenty-three he was considered capable, in the 
opinion of all those who heard him in the saloons of the court, of 
coming out at San Samuel in the first parts. One evening the dilet- 
tanti, nobility, and artists of repute then in Venice, were requested to 
be present at a final and decisive trial. For the first time in his life 
Anzoleto doffed his plebeian attire, put on a black coat, a satin vest, 
and with curled and powdered hair, and buckles in his shoes, glided 
over with a composed air to the harpsichord, where amid the glare of 
a hundred wax-lights, and under the gaze of two or three hundred 
persons, he boldly distended his chest, and made the utmost display 
of pow'ers that were to introduce him into a career where not one 
judge alone, but a whole public, held the palm in one hand and 
downfall in the other. 

We need not ask whether Anzoleto was secretly agitated. Never- 
theless, he scarcely allowed his emotion to be apparent; and hardly 
had his piercing eyes divined by a stealthy glance the secret approba- 
tion which women I'arely refuse to grant to so handsome a youth — 
hardly had the amateurs, surprised at the compass of his voice, and 
his facility of expression, uttered a few faint. murmurs of applause — 
when joy and hope flooded his whole being. For the first time An- 
zoleto, hitherto ill-instructed and undervalued, felt that he was no 
common man; and transported by the necessity and the conscious- 
ness of success, he sang with an originality, an energy, and skill, that 
were altogether remarkable. H'is taste, to be sure, was not always 
pure, nor his execution faultless; but he was always able to extricate 
himself by his boldness, his intelligence, and enthusiasm. He failed 
in effects wdiich the composer had intended, but he realized others 
which no one ever thought of— neither the author who composed, the 
professor w'ho interpreted, nor the virtuoso who rehearsed them. His 
originality took the world hy storm. For one innovation his aw^k- 
w^ardness was pardoned, and for an original sentiment tliey excused 
ten rebellions against method. So true it is that in point of art the 
least spark of genius — the smallest flight in the direction of new con- 
quests — exercises a greater fascination than all the resources and 
lights of science within known limits. 

Nobody, perhaps, was able to explain these matters, and nobody 
escaped the common enthusiasm. Gorilla began by a grand aria, well 
sung and loudly applauded ; yet the success of the young debutant 
was so much gieater than her own, that she could not help feeling an 
ernotio/i of anger. But when Anzoleto, loaded with caresses and 
praises, returned to the harpsichord where she w’as seated, he said, 
with a mixture of humility and boldness, “ And you, queen of song 
and queen of beauty! have you not one encmiraging glance for the 
poor wretch who fears even while he adores you?” The prima 
donna sui’prised at so much assurance, looked more closely at the 
handsome countenance which till then she had hardly deigned to 
notice — for what vain and triumphant woman cares to cast a glance 
on the child of obscurity and poverty? She looked, and was struck 
with his beauty. The fire of his glances penetrated her soul; and, 
vanquished, fascinated in her turn, she directed towards him a long 


32 


CONSUELO. 


and earnest gaze, which served to seal his celebrity. In this memor* 
able meeting, Anzoleto had led the public, and disarmed his most re- 
doubtable adversary ; for the beautiful songstress was not only queen 
of the stage, but at the head of the management, and of the cabinet 
of Count Zustiniani. 


CHAPTER IV. 

In the midst of the general and somewhat exaggerated applause 
which the voice and manner of the debutant had drawn forth, a single 
auditor, seated on the extreme edge of his chair, his legs close to- 
gether and his hands motionless on his knees, after the fashion of the 
Egyptian gods, remained dumb as a sphinx, and mysterious as a 
hieroglyphic. It was the able professor and celebrated composer 
Porpora. Whilst his gallant colleague, Professor Mellifiore, ascribing 
to himself all the glory of Anzoleto’s success, plumed himself before 
the women and bowed to the men, as if to thank them even for their 
looks, the master of sacred song, with eyes bent on the ground, silent 
and severe, seemed lost in thought When the company, who were 
engaged to a ball at the palace of the Doge, had slowly departed, and 
the most enthusiastic dilettanti, with some ladies, alone I'emained, 
Zustiniani drew nigh to the austere master. 

“ You are too hard upon us, poor moderns, my dear professor,” said 
he ; “ but your silence has no influence on me. You would exclude 
this new and charming style which delights us all. But your heart 
is open in spite of you, and your ears have drunk in the seductive 
poison,” 

“Come Sior Profesor,’' said the charming Corilla, resuming with 
her old master the childish manners of the scuola, “ you must grant 
me a favor.” 

“ Away, unhappy girl!” said the master, partly smiling and partly 
displeased at the caresses of his inconstant pupil : “ there is no fur- 
ther communication between us. I know you no more. Take your 
sweet smiles and perfidious warblings elsewhere.” 

“ There now, he is coming round,” said Corilla, taking with one 
hand the arm of the debutant, without letting go her hold of the 
white and ample cravat of the professor. “ Come hitherto, Zoto, and 
bow the knee before the most learned maestro in all Italy. Submit 
thyself, my child, and disarm his rigor. One word from him, if thou 
couldst obtain it, would be more to thee than all the trumpets of re- 
nown.” 

“ You have been severe towards me. Signor Professor,” said Anzo- 
leto, bending before him with mock humility; “ nevertheless, my only 
wish for four years has been to induce you to reconsider a cruel 
judgment; and if I fail in doing so to-night, I fear I shall never have 
the courage to appear before the public, loaded with your anathema.” 

“Child!” said the professor, rising hastily, and speaking with an 
earnestness which imparted something noble to his unimpressive fig- 
ure, “ leave false and honied words to women. Never descend to the 
language of flattery, even to your superiors— much less to those whose 
duflTrage you disdain. It is but an hour ago since, poor, unknown, 


CONSUELO. 


33 


timid, in this little corner, all your prospects bung upon a hair — on a 
note from your throat — a moment’s failure of your resources, or a 
mere whim of your audience. Chance, and the efforts of an instant, 
have made you rich, celebrated, insolent. Your career is open before 
you, and you have only to go on, so long as your strength sustains 
you. Listen then : for the first, and perhaps for the last time, you 
are about to hear the truth. You are in a false direction; you sing 
badly, and love bad music. You know nothing, and have studied 
nothing thoroughly. All you have is the facility which practice im- 
parts. You assume a passion which you do not feel : you wai ble and 
shake like those pretty coquettish young damsels whom one pardons 
for simpering where they know not how to sing. You know not how 
to phrase your music ; you pronounce badly ; yoxi have a vulgar ac- 
cent, a false and common style. Do not be discouraged, however, 
with all these defects. You have wherewithal to combat them. You 
have qualities which neither labor nor instruction can impart. You 
have that which neither bad advice nor bad example can take away. 
You have the sacred fire — you have genius! Alas! it is a fire which 
will sliine upon nothing grand, a genius that will remain for ever bar- 
ren; for 1 have seen it in your eyes, aye 1 have felt it in your breast. 
You have not the worship of art; you have not faith in the great 
masters, nor respect for their grand conceptions; you love glory, and 
glory for yourself alone. You might — you could — but, no! it is too 

late ! Your destiny will be as the flash of a meteor — like that of ” 

And the* professor, thrusting his hat over his brows, turned his 
back, and without bowing to any one, left the apartment, absorbed in 
mentally completing his energetic sentence. ' 

Every one tried to laugh at the sententious professor; but his words 
left a painful impression, and a melancholy feeling of doubt, which 
lasted for some moments. Anzoleto was the first who apparently 
ceased to thin<k of them, though they had occasio-ned him an intense 
feeling of joy, pride, anger, and emulation, which was destined to in- 
fluence all his latter life. He appeared exclusively engaged in pleas- 
ing Gorilla, and he knew so well how to flatter her, that she was very 
much taken with him at this first meeting. Count Zustiniani was not 
jealous, and perhaps had his reasons for taking no notice of them. 
He was interested in the fame and success of his theatre more than 
anything else in the world; not that he cared about money, but be- 
cause he was a real fanatic in all that related to what are termed the 
fine arts. This, in my opinion, is a phrase which is generally employ- 
ed in a vulgar sense, and being altogether Italian, is consequently en- 
thusiastic and without much discernment. The culture of art, a 
modern expression, which the world did not make use of a hundred 
years ago, has a meaning altogether different from a ta,ste for the fine 
arts. The count was a man of taste in the common acceptation of 
the word— amateur, and nothing more; but the gratification of his 
taste was the great business of hfs life. He loved to be busy about the 
public, and to have the public busy about him— to frequent the socie- 
ty of artists — to lead the fashion— to have his theatre, his luxury, his 
amiability, and his magnificence, made the subject of conversation. 
He had, in short, the ruling passion of the great noblemen of his 
country-riiamely, ostentation. To possess and direct a theatre was 
the best means of occupying and amusing the whole city. He would 
have been happy if he could have asked the whole republic to dinner. 
When strangers asked Professor Porpora who was the Count Zustiiv- 
2 


84 


C0N8UEL0 


iani, he was accustomed to reply — “ He is one who loves to give en- 
tertainments, and who serves up music at liis theatre as he would 
pheasants on his table.” 

It was one in the morning before the company separated. ‘‘ Anzo- 
leto,” said Gorilla, when alone with him in the embrasure of the bal- 
cony, “ where do you live?” At this unexpected inquiry, Anzoleto 
grew pale and red almost at the same moment; for how could he con- 
fess to the rich and fascinating beauty before him, that he had in a 
manner neither house nor home? Even this response would have 
been easier than to mention the miserable den where he was in the 
habit of taking refuge, when neither inclination nor necessity obliged 
him to pass the night in the open air. 

“Well, what is there so extraordinary in my question? ” said Goril- 
la, laughing. 

“ I am asking myself,” replied Anzoleto, with much presence of 
mind, “ what royal or fairy palace were fitting home for the happy 
mortal who is honored by a glance from Gorilla.” 

“ What does all this flattery mean ? ” said she, darting on him one 
of the most bewitching glances contained in the storehouse of her 
charms. 

“ That I have not that honor,” replied the young man ; “ but that, 
if I had, I should be content only to float between earth and sky, like 
the stars.” 

“Or like the cuccali,” said the songstress, bursting into a fit of 
laughter. It is well known that gulls [cuccali] are proverbially sim- 
ple, and to speak of their awkwardness, in the language of Venice, is 
equivalent to saying, in ours, “ As stupid as a goose.” 

“Ridicule me— despise me,” replied Anzoleto; “ I would rather that 
you should do so than not think of me at ail.” 

“ Well, then,” said she, “ since you must reply in metaphors, I shall 
take you with me in my gondola; and if I take you away fioin your 
abode, instead of taking you to it, it will be your own fault.” 

“ If that be your motive for inquiry, my answer is brief and expli- 
cit: my home is on the steps of your palace.” 

“ Go then, and await me on the stairs below,” said Gorilla, lower- 
ing her voice; “ for Zustiniani may blame the indulgence with which 
I have listened to your nonsense.” 

In the first impulse of his vanity Anzoleto disappeared, and darting 
towards the landing-place of the palace, to the prow of Gorilla's gondo- 
la, counted the moments by the beating of his fevered pulse. But be- 
fore she appeared on the steps of the palace, many thoughts had 
passed through the anxious and ambitious brain of the debutant 
“ Gorilla,” said he to himself, “ is all powerful; but if by pleasing hei 
I were to displease the count, or if, in virtue of my too easy triumph, 
I were to destroy her power, and disgust him altogether with so in- 
constant a beauty ” 

In the midst of these perplexing thoughts, Anzoleto measured with 
a glance the stair which he might yet remount, and was planning how 
to effect his escape, when torches gleamed under the portico, and the 
beautiful Gorilla, wrapped in an ermine cloak, appeared upon the up- 
per steps, amid a group of cavaliers, anxious to support her rounded 
elbow in the hollow of their band, and in this manner to assist her to 
descend, as is the custom in Venice. 

“Well,” said the gondolier of the prima donna to the confounded 
Anzoleto, “ what are you doing there? Make haste into the gondola 


CONSUELO. 35 

if you have permission; if not, proceed on your way, for my lord 
count is with the signora.” 

Anzoleto threw himself into the bottom of the gondola, without 
knowing what he did. He was stupefied. But scarcely did he find 
himself there, when he fancied the ainazeineiit and indignation which 
the count would feel, should he enter into the gondola with Gorilla, 
and find there his insolent protege. His cruel anxiety was protracted 
for several minutes. The signoja had stopped about half-way down 
the staircase; she was laughing and talking with those about her, and, 
in discussing a musical phrase, she repeated it in several different 
ways. Her clear and thrilling voice died away amid the palaces and 
cupolas of the canal, as the crow of the cock before the dawn, is lost 
in the silence of the open country. 

Anzoleto, unable to contain himself, resolved to escape by the open- 
ing of the gondola which was farthest from the stair. He had already 
thrust aside the glass in its panel of black velvet, and had passed one 
leg through the opening, when the second rower of the prima donna, 
who was stationed at the stern, leaning over the edge of the little cab- 
in, said in a low voice, “ They are singing — that is as much as to say, 
‘ You may wait without being afraid.’ ” 

“ I did not know the usual custom,” thought Anzoleto, who still 
tarried, not without some mixture of consternation. Gorilla amused 
herself by bringing the count as far as the side of the gondola, and 
kept him standing there, while she repeated the felicissima notte'^ 
until she had left the shore. She then came and placed herself beside 
her new admirer, with as much ease and self-possession as if his life 
and her own fortune had not been at stake. 

“ Look at Gorilla,” said Zustiniani to the Gount Barberigo. “ Well, 
I would wager my head that she is not alone in yonder gondola.” 

“ And why do you think so? ” replied Barberigo. 

“ Because she asked me a thousand times to accompany her to her 
palace.” 

“ Is that your jealousy ? ” 

“ Oh, I have been long free from that weakness. I should be right 
glad if our prima donna would take a fancy to some one who would 
prevent her from leaving Venice as she sometimes threatens. I could 
console myself for her desertion of me, but I could neither replace her 
voice nor her talents, nor the ardor with which she inspires the pub- 
lic at San Samuel.” 

“I understand; but who, then, is the happy favorite of this mad 
princess? ” 

The count and his friend enumerated all whom Gorilla appeared to 
encourage during the evening. Anzoleto was absolutely the only on© 
whom they failed to think of 


GHAPTER Y. 

A VIOLENT struggle arose in the breast of the happy lover, who 
agitated and palpitating, w'as borne on the waters through the tran- 
quil night, with the most celebrated beauty of Venice. Anzoleto was 
transported by his ardor, which gratified vanity rendered still mor© 


36 


CONSUELO. 


powerful. On the other hand, the fear of displeasing, of being scorn- 
tully dismissed and impeached, restrained his impetuosity. Prudent 
and cunning, like a true Venetian as he was, he had not aspired to the 
theatre for more than six years, without being well informed as to the 
fantastic and imperious woman who governed all its intrigues. He 
was well assured that his reign would be of short duration, and if he 
did not withdraw from this dangerous honor, it was because he was 
taken in a measure by surprise. He had merely wished to gain toler- 
rance by his courtesy; and, behold! his youth, his beauty, and bud- 
ding glory, had inspired love ! “ Now,” said Anzoleto, with the rapid 
perception which heads of his wonderful organization enjoy, “ there 
is nothing but to make myself feared, if to-morrow 1 would not be 
ridiculous. But how shall a poor devil like myself accomplish this 
with a haughty beauty like Gorilla? ” He was soon decided. He be- 
gan a system of distrust, jealousy, and bitterness, of which the pas- 
sionate coquetry astonished the prima donna. Their conversation 
may be resumed as follows : — 

Anzoleto — “ I know that you do not love me — that you will never 
love me ; therefore am I sad and constrained beside you.” 

Gorilla — “ And suppose I were to love you ? ” 

Anzoleto — “ I should be wretched, because that were to fall from 
heaven into the abyss, and lose you perchance an hour after I had 
gained you, at the price of all my future happiness.” 

Gorilla — “And what makes you think me so inconstant? ” 

Anzoleto — “First, the want of desert on my part; second, the ill 
that is said of you.” 

Gorilla — “ And who dares to asperse me ? ” 

Anzoleto — “ Everybody, because everybody adores you.” 

Gorilla— Then, if I were mad enough to like you, and 
so, would you repel me ? ” 

Anzoleto— “ I know not if I should have the power to fly; but if I 
had, I know that I should never behold you again.” 

“ Very well,” said Gorilla, “ 1 have a fancy to try the experiment— 
Anzoleto, I love you.” 

“ I do not believe it,” replied he. “ If I stay, it is because I think 
you are only mocking me. That is a game at which you shall not 
frighten me, and still less shall you pique me.” 

“ You wish to try an encounter of wit, I think.” 

“ No, indeed; I am not in the least to be drea'ded, since I give vou 
the means of overcoming me; it is to freeze me with terror, and drive 
me from your presence, in telling me seriously what you have iust 
now uttered in jest.” 

“You are a knowing fellow, and I see that one must be careful 
what one says to you. You are one of those who not only wish to 
breathe the fragrance of the rose, but would pluck and preserve it. I 
could not have supposed you so bold and so decided at your ao’e ” 

“ And do you despise me therefore ? ” ® ’ 

“ On the contrary, I am the more pleased with you. Good ni^ht 
Anzoleto; we shall see each other again.” ® ’ 

She held out her white hand, which he kissed passionately. “ I 
have got off famously,” said he, as he escaped by the passages lead- 
ing from the Canaletto. ^ ^ i » 

Despairing of gaining access to his nest at so late an hour, he 
thouglit he wouid iie down at the first porch, to gain the lieaveni; re- 
pose which infancy and poverty alone know; but, for the first tinie iu 


you, and to tell you 


CONSUELO. 


37 


his life, he 20 uld not find a slab sufficiently smooth for his purpose. 
The pavement of Venice is the cleanest and whitest in the world; 
still, the light dust scattered over it hardly suited a dark dress of ele- 
gant material and latest fashion. And then the propriety of the 
thing! The boatmen who would have carefully stepped over the 
young plebeian in the morning, would have insulted him, and perhaps 
soiled his parasitic livery during his repose. What would they have 
thought of one reposing in the open air in silk stockings, fine linen, 
and lace ruffles? Anzoleto regretted his good woollen capa, worn 
and old no doubt, but thick and well calculated to resist the unhealthy 
morning fogs of Venice. It was now towards the latter end of Feb- 
uary; and, although the d.ays at this period were warm and brilliant, 
the nights at Venice were still very cold. Then he thought he would 
gain admission into one of the gondolas fastened to the bank, but 
they were all secured under lock and key. At last he found one of 
which the door yielded ; but in getting in, be stumbled over the legs 
of the barcarole, who had retired for the night. “ Per diavolo ! ” 
said a rough voice from the bottom of the cabin, “ who are you, and 
what do you want? ” 

“ Is it you, Zanetto ? ’’ replied Anzoleto, recognizing the man, who 
was generally very civil to him; “let me stretch myself beside you, 
and dream a while within your cabin.” 

“ And who are you ? ” said Zanetto. 

“ Anzoleto : do you not know me ? ” 

“ Per diavolo^ no ! You have garments which Anzoleto never wore, 
unless he stole them. Be ofT! Were you the Doge in person, I would 
not open my bark to a man who strutted about in fine clothes when 
he had not a corner to rest in.” 

“So, so,” thought Anzoleto; “ the protection and favor of Count 
Zustiniani have exposed me to greater dangers and annoyances than 
they have procured me advantages. It is time that my fortune should 
correspond with my success, and I long to have a few sequins to 
enable me to support the station which I have assumed.” 

Sufficiently out of sorts, he sauntered through the deserted streets, 
not daring to pause a moment, lest the perspiration should be checked 
which anger and fatigue had caused to flow freely foi th. “ It is well, 
I do not grow hoarse,” said he to himself; “to-morrow the count 
will show me off to some foolish Aristarchus, who, if I have the least 
feather in the throat in consequence of this night’s want of rest, will 
say that I have no voice ; and the Signor Count, who knows better, 
will repeat, ‘ If you had but heard him last night 1 ’ ‘ He is not equal, 
then,’ the other will observe ; ‘ or perhaps he is not in good health ; ’ 
‘or perhaps,’ as a third will aver, ‘he was tired last night. The 
truth is, he is very young to sing several days in succession. Had 
you not better wait till he is riper and more robust? ’ And the count 
will say, ‘Diavolo! if he grows hoarse after a couple of songs, he will 
not answer me.’ Then, to make sure that I am strong and well, they 
will make me exercise every day till I am out of breath, and break 
my voice to prove that I have lungs. To the devil with their protec- 
tion, I say! Ah! if 1 were only free of these great folk, and in favor 
with the public, and courted by the theatres, I could sing in their 
saloons, and treat with them as equal powers.” 

Thus plotting, Anzoleto reached one of those little spots termed 
corti in Venice. Courts indeed they were not, but an assemblage of 
bouses opening on a common space, corresponding with what in Paris 


38 


C O N S U E L O . 


is called cite. But there is nothing in the disposition of these pro- 
tended courts like the elegant and systematic arrangements of our 
modern squares. They are obscure spots, sometimes impassable, at 
other times allowing passage; but little frequented, and dwelt in by 
persons of slender fortune — laborers, workmen, or washerwomen, 
who stretch their linen across the road, somewhat to the annoyance 
of the passengers, who put up with it hi return for permission to go 
across. Woe to the poor artist who is obliged to open the windows 
of his apartment in these secluded recesses, where rustic life, with its 
noisy, unclean habits, re-appears in the heart of Venice, not tw'o steps 
from large canals and sumptuous edifices! Woe to him if silence be 
necessary to his occupation! for, from morn till night, there is an in- 
terminable uproar, with children, fowls, and dogs, screaming and 
playing within the narrow space, the chatter of women in the porches, 
and the songs of workmen, which do not leave him a moment of re- 
pose. Happy, too, if improvtaatori do not bawl their sonnets till they 
have gathered a coin from every window; or Brighella do not fix her 
station in the court, ready to begin her dialogue afresh with the “ woo- 
cato, il tedesco, e il diavolo.’’^ until she has exhausted in vain her elo- 
quence before the dirty children — happy spectators, who do not scru- 
ple to listen and to look on, although tliey have not a farthing in their 
possession. 

But at night, when all is silent, and wdien the quiet moon lights up 
the scene, this assemblage of houses of every period, united to each 
other without symmetry or pretension, divided by deep shadows full 
of mystery in their recesses, and of a wild spontaneous beauty, pre- 
sents an infinitely picturesque assemblage. Everything is beautiful 
under the light of the moon. The least architectural effect assumes 
force and character, and the meanest balcony, with its clustering vine, 
reminds you of Spain and of romantic adventures with the cloak and 
sword. The clear atmosphere in which the distant cupolas rising 
above the dark mass are bathed, sheds on the minutest details of the 
picture a vague yet harmonious coloring, which invites one to reveries 
without end. 

It was in the Corte Minelli, near the church of San Fantin, that 
Anzoleto found himself when the clocks of the different churches 
tolled the hour of two. A secret instinct had led his devious steps to 
the dwelling of one of whom he had not thought since the setting of 
the sun. Hardly had he entered the court, when he heard a sweet 
voice call him by the last syllables of his name ; and raising his head 
he saw for an instant a faint profile shadow itself on one of the most 
miserable abodes of the place. A moment afterwards a door opened, 
and Consuelo, in a muslin petticoat and wrapped in an old black silk 
mantle which had served as adornment for her mother, extended one 
hand to him, while at the same time she placed her finger on her lip 
to enforce silence. They crept up the ruined stair, and seated at 
length on the terrace, they began one of those long whispering con- 
versations, interrupted by kisses, which one hears by night along the 
level roofs, like the converse of wandering spirits wafted through the 
mist, athidst the strange chimneys, hooded with red turbans, of all the 
houses of Venice. 

“ How, my poor friend ! ” said Anzoleto ; “ have you waited for mo 
until now? ” 

“ Did you not say you would give me an account of the evening, 
and tell me if you sang well— if you afforded pleasure— if they ap- 
plauded you— if they signed your engagement? ” 


C O N S U E I. () . 


39 


“ And you, iny best Consuelo,” said Anzoleto, struck with remorse 
on seeing the confidence and sweetness of this poor girl, “ tell me if 
my long absence has made you impatient — if you are not tired — if 
you do not feel chill on this cold terrace — if you have already supped 
— if you are not angry with me for coming so late— if you are uneasy 
— if you found fault with mef’ 

“ No such thing,” she replied, throwing her arms about his neck. 
“ If 1 have been impatient, it was not with you ; if I felt wearied— if 
I was cold — I am no longer so, since you are here. Whether I have 
supped or not, I do not know; whether 1 have found fault with you ? 
— why should I find fault with you? — if 1 have been disquieted? — 
why should 1 have been so? — if I have been angry with you? — nev- 
er!” 

“ You are an angel ! ” said Anzoleto, returning her caress. “Ah, my 
only consolation I how cold and perfidious are all other hearts! ” 

“Alas! what has happened! — w’ hat have they done to the son of 
my soul? ” exclaimed Consuelo, mixing with the sweet Venetian dia- 
lect the passionate expressions of her native tongue. 

Anzoleto told her all that had happened — even to his gallantries 
w'ith Gorilla, and more especially the encouragement which she held 
out to him; only he smoothed matters over somewhat, saying nothing 
that could vex Consuelo, since in point of fact he had been faithful— 
and he told almost all. But there is always some minute particle of 
truth on which judicial inquiry has never throwm light — wdiich no 
client has revealed to his advocate — w’hich no sentence has ever aimed 
at except by chance — because in these few secret facts or intentions is 
the entire cause, the motive, the aim — the object in a word — of these 
great suits, always so badly pleaded and always so badly judged, what- 
ever may be the ardor of the speakers or the coolness of the magis- 
trate. 

To return to Anzoleto. It is not necessary to say what pecadilloes 
he omitted, w'hat emotions in public he translated in his own fashion, 
w'hat secret palpitations in the gondola he forgot to mention. I do 
not think he even spoke of the gondola at all, and as to his flatteries 
at the cantatrice, why they were adroit mystifications by means of 
which he escaped her perilous advances without making her angry. 
Wherefore, being un willing, and I may add unable, to mention ail the 
temptations which he had surmounted by his prudence and caution, 
wiiy, dear lady reader, should the young rogue awaken jealousy in 
the bosom of Consuelo? Happily for the little Spaniard she knew 
nothing of jealousy. This dark and bitter feeling only afflicts souls 
that have greatly suffered, and hitherto Consuelo had been happy in 
her affection as she was good. The only thing that made a pro- 
found impression upon her was the severe yet flattering denuncia- 
tion of Professor Porpora on the adored head of Anzoleto. She made 
him repeat all the expressions wdiich the maestro had used, and when 
he had dotje so, pondered on them long and earnestly. 

“ My little Consuelo,” said Anzoleto without remarking her ab- 
straction, “ it is horribly cold here. Are you not afraid of getting 
cold? Think, my dear, that our prospects depend much more upon 
your voice than mine.” 

“ I never get cold,” said she; “but you are so lightly dressed with 
your fine clothes. Here now, put on tliis mantle.” 

“ What would you have me do with this fine bit of torn taffeta? I 
would rather take shelter for half an hour in your apartment.” 


40 


O (J N S U E L O . 


“’Tis well,” said Consuelo, “but then we must not speak; the 
neighbors would hear us, and we should be to blame. They are not ill- 
disposed ; they see us together without tormenting me about it, because 
they know very well you do not come here at night. You would do 
better to sleep at home.” 

, “Impossible! They will only open at daylight, and there are still 
three hours to watch. See, my teeth chatter with the cold ! ” 

“ Well,” said Consuelo, getting up, “ I shall let you into my room 
and return to the terrace, so that if anybody should observe it, it will 
be seen there is nothing wrong.” 

She brought him into a dilapidated apartment, where, under flowers 
and frescoes on the wall, appeared a second picture, almost in a worse 
condition than the first. A large square bed with a mattress of sea- 
weed, and a spotted muslin coverlet, perfectly clean but patched with 
fragments of every imaginable color; a straw chair, a little table, an 
antique guitar, a filagree cross — the only wealth her mother had left 
— a spinet, a great heap of worm-eaten music, which Professor Propora 
was kind enough to lend — such was the funiiture of the young artist, 
daughter of a poor Bohemian, the pupil of a celebrated master, and 
sweetheart of a handsome adventurer. As there was but one chair, 
and as the table was covered with music, there was no seat for Anzo- 
leto but the bed, on which he placed himself without hesitation. 
Hardly was he seated, when overwhelmed with fatigue, his head fell up- 
on the woolen cushion which served as a pillow ; but almost immediately 
starting up again by a violent effort, he exclaimed — 

“And you, my poor girl! are you going to take no rest? Ah! I 
am a wretch — I shall go and lie in the streets.” 

“No,” said Consuelo, gently thrusting him back; “you are ill and 
I am not. My mother died a good Catholic; she is now in heaven, 
and sees us at this very hour. She knows you have kept the promise 
you made to her, never to abandon me. She knows that our affection 
has been pure since her death as before. She sees at this moment 
that I neither do nor think wdiat is wrong — that her soul may repose 
in the Lord ! ” And here Consuelo made the sign of the cross. An- 
zoleto already slumbered. “ I am going to tell my beads,” continued 
Cousuelo, moving away, “ that you may not take the fever.” 

“ Angel that you are! ” faintly murmured Anzoleto, and he did not 
even perceive that he was alone. She had gone, in fact, to the terrace. 
In a short time she returned to assure herself that he was not ill, and, 
finding that he slept tranquilly, she gazed long and earnestly at his 
beautiful face, as it lay lighted by the moon. 

Then, determined to resist drowsiness herself, and finding that the 
emotions of the evening had caused her to neglect her w'ork, she 
lighted the lamp, and, seated before the little table, she noted a com- 
position which Master Porpora had required of her for the following 
day. 


CHAPTER YI. 

The Count Zustiniani, notwithstanding his philosophical composure, 
was not so indifferent to the insolent caprices of Corilla as he pre- 
tended. Good-natured, weak, frivolous, Zustiniani was only a rake ii- 


CONSUELO. 


41 


appearance and by his social position. He could not help feeling at 
the bottom of his heart the ungrateful return which this insolent and 
foolish girl had made to his generosity; and though at that period it 
was considered the worst possible taste, as well at Venice as at Paris, 
to seem iealous, his Italian pride revolted at the absurd and miserable 
position in which Gorilla had placed him. So, the same afternoon 
that had seen Anzoleto shine at the Palazzo Zustiniani, the count, 
after having laughed with Barberigo over the tricks of Cocilla, his 
saloons being emptied and the wax-lights extinguished, took down his 
cloak and sword, and, in order to ease his mind, setoff for the palazzo 
inhabited by his mistress. 

He found that she was alone, but still doubted her. He began to 
converse in a low voice with the barcarole who was mooring the gon- 
dola of the prima donna under the arch reserved for that purpose ; 
and, by virtue of a few sequins, he easily convinced himself that he 
was not mistaken, and that Gorilla had not been alone in the gondola; 
but who it was that had accompanied her he could not ascertain — the 
gondolier knew not. He had met Anzoleto a hundred times in the 
passages of the theatre, or near the Palazzo Zustiniani, but failed to 
recognise him when powdered and in his dark attire. 

This inscrutable mystery completed the count’s annoyance. He 
consoled himself with ridiculing his rival, the only vengeance which 
good breeding permitted, and not less cruel in a gay and frivolous age 
than murder at more serious periods. He could not sleep; and at 
the hour when Porpora began his instructions, he set out for the 
Scuola di Mendicanti, and the hall where the young pupils were wont 
to assemble. 

The position of the count with regard to the learned professor was 
for some years past much changed. Zustiniani was no longer the 
musical antagonist of Porpora, but in some sort his associate and 
leader. He had advanced considerable sums to the establishment 
over which the learned maestro presided, and out of gratitude the 
directors had invested him with the supreme control. The two asso- 
ciates then were as good friends as could be expected from the intol- 
erance of the maestro with regard to the music in vogue — an intoler- 
ance, however, which was considerably softened by the assistance and 
resources lavished by the count in behalf of the propagation 'of 
serious music. Besides, the latter had brought out at San Samuel an 
opera which the maestro had written. 

“ My dear master,” said Zustiniani, drawing Porpora aside, “ you 
must not only give me one of your pupils for the theatre, but say 
which of them is best calculated to replace Gorilla. That artist is 
worn out, her voice has decayed, her capTices ruin us, and the public 
will be disgusted. Truly, we must obtain a succeditnee.^’ Pardon, 
dear reader, for this was said in Italian, and the count made no mis- 
take. 

“ I have not got what you require,” replied Porpora, dryly. 

“What! my dear maestro,” exclaimed the count, “you are not 
going to fall back into your dark moods? Is it after all the sacrifices 
and all the devotion which I have manifested towai-ds you, that yon 
are going to deny me a slight favor when I ask your assistance and 
advice in my own behalf? ” 

“ I should not be justified in doing so,” replied the professor, “ and 
what I have just said is the truth, told you by a friend, and with the 
desir3 to oblige you. I have not in my school a single person capable 


42 


CONSUELO. 


of replacing Gorilla. I do not estimate her higher than she deserves, 
yet ill declaring that the talent of this girl has no real worth in my 
eyes, I am forced to acknowledge that she possesses an experience, a 
skill, a facility, and a sympathy with the public, which can only be 
acquired by years of practice, and which could not be obtained by 
other debutantes for a long time.” 

“ That is true,?’ said the count; “ but we made Gorilla, we saw her 
begin, vre procured the approbation of the public; her beauty gained 
her three-fourths of her success, and you have individuals equally 
agreeable in your school. You cannot deny that, master. Gome, 
admit that Glorinda is the most beautiful creature in the universe.” 

“ Yes, but saucy, simpering, intolerable. — The public perhaps may 
find her grimaces charming — but she sings false, she has neither soul 
nor intelligence. It is true that the pubjic has only ears; but then 
she has neither memory nor address, and she could only save herself 
from condemnation by the happy charlatanism that succeeds with so 
many others.” 

Thus saying, the professor cast an involuntary glance upon Anzo- 
leto, who, under favor of the count, and on pretence of listening to 
the class, had kept a little apart, attending to the conversation. 

“ It matters not,” said Zustiniani, who heeded little the master’s 
rancour; “ I shall not give up my project. It is long since I have 
lieard Glorinda. Let her come with five or six others, the prettiest 
that can be found. Gome, Anzoleto,” said he, smiling, “ you are well 
enough attired to assume the grave air of a young professor. Go to 
the garden and speak to the most striking of these young beauties, 
and tell them that the professor and I expect them here.” 

Anzoleto obeyed, but whether through malice or address, he brought 
the ugliest, so that Jean .laeques might have said for once with truth, 

Sofia was one-eyed, and Cattina was a cripple.” 

This quid pro quo was taken in good part: and after they had 
laughed in their sleeves, they dismissed them, in order to send those 
of tlieir companions whom the professor named. A charming group 
soon made their appearance, with Glorinda at their head. 

What magnificent hair!” exclaimed the count, as the latter passed 
hitn with her superb tresses. 

“ There is much more on than in that head,” said the professor, 
without deigning to lower his voice. 

After an hour’s trial, the count could stand it no longer, but with 
courteous expressions to the young ladies, retired full of consterna- 
tion, after saying in the professor’s ear, “ we must not think of these 
cockatoos ! ” 

“ Would your Excellency permit me to say a word respecting the 
subject which occupies you,” said Anzoleto in a low voice to the 
count as they descended the steps. 

“Speak,” said the count; “do you know this marvel whom we 
seek ? ” 

“ Yes, Excellenza.” 

“ In what sea will you fish up this precious pearl ? ” 

“ At the bottom of the class, where the jealous Porpora places her 
on the day when you pass your female battalion in review.” 

“ What! is there a diamond in the school whose splendor has never 
reached my eyes? If Master Porpora has played me such a trick ! — ” 

“ Illustrious, the diamond of which I speak is not strictly part of the 
school: she is only a poor girl who sings in the choruses when they 


CONSUELO. 43 

require her services, and to whom the professor gives lessons partly 
through charity, but still more from love of his art.” 

“ In that case her abilities must be extraordinary, for the professor 
is not easily satisfied, and in no way prodigql of his time and labor. 
Could I have heard her perchance without knowing it?” 

“Your Excellency heard her long ago when she was but a child. 
Now she is a young woman — able, studious, wise as the professor 
himself, a)Kl capable of extinguishing Gorilla on the first occasion that 
she sings a single air beside her in the theatre.” 

“Does she never sing in public? Did she not sing sometimes at 
vespers ? ” 

“ Formerly, your Excellency, the professor took pleasure in hearing 
her sing in the church: but since then the scolari, through jealousy 
and revenge, have threatened to chase her from the tribune if she re- 
appears there by their side.” 

“ She is a girl of bad conduct then ? ” 

“ Oh Heavens! she is a virgin, pure as the newly fallen snow! But 
she is poor and of mean extraction — like myself, Eccellenza. whom 
you yet deign to elevate by your goodness — and these wicked harpies 
have threatened to complain to you of bringing into their class a pupil 
who did not belong to it.” 

“ Where can I hear this wonder? ” 

“ Let your Highness order the professor to make her sing before 
you, and" you can then judge of her voice and the amount of her 
talent.” 

“ Your confidence inclines me to believe you. You say I heard her 
long since? — I cannot remember when.” 

“ In the church of the Mendicanti, on a general rehearsal of the 
‘ Sahe liegina ’ of Pergolese.” 

“ Oh, I remember now,” exclaimed the count; “ voice, accent, and 
intelligence equally admirable!” 

“ She was then but fourteen, my lord — no better than a child.” 

“ Yes — but now I think of it, I remember she was not handsome.” 

“ Not handsome, Excellenza ! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, quite as- 
tounded. 

“ She was called — let me see— M^as it not a Spanish name? — some- 
thing out of the way ? ” 

“ it was Consuelo, my lord.” 

“ Yes, that is the name; you were to marry her then, a step which 
made the professor and myself laugh a little. Consuelo— yes, it is the 
same ; the favorite of the professor, an intelligent girl, but very ugly.” 

“ Veivy ugly? ” repeated Anzoleto, as if stupefied. 

“ Yes, my child. Do you still admire her-? ” 

“ She is mon amie, Illustrissimo.” 

“ Amie 1 that is to say, sister or sweetheart, which of the two? ” 

“ Sister, my master.” 

In that case I can give you an answer without paining you; your 
idea is devoid of common sense. To replace Gorilla it would i-equire 
an ajigel of beauty, and your Consuelo, if I remember rightly, was not 
only ugly but frightful!” 

The count was accosted at this moment by one of his friends, and 
left Anzoleto, who was struck dumb with amazement, and who re- 
peated with a sigh, “ She is frightful I ” 


44 


C O N S U E L O 


CHAPTER yil. 

It may appear rather astonishing, dear reader, and yet it is very 
certain, that Anzoleto never had formed an opinion of the beauty or 
the ugliness of Consuelo. Consuelo was a being so solitary, so un- 
known in Venice, that no one had thought of seeking whether, be- 
neath this veil of isolation and obscurity, intelligence and goodness 
liad ended by showing themselves under an agreeable or insignificant 
form. Porpora, who had no senses but for his art, had only seen in 
her the artist. Her neighbors of the Corte Minelli observed, without 
attaching any blame to it, her innocent love for Anzoleto. At Venice 
they are not particular on this score. They predicted indeed very 
often, that she would be unhappy with this youth without business or 
calling, and they counselled her rather to seek to establish herself 
with some honest workman. But she replied to them that, as she 
herself was without friends or support, Anzoleto suited her per- 
fectly, and as for six years no day had passed without their seeing 
them together, never seeking any concealment and never quarreling, 
they had ended by accustoming themselves to their free and apparent- 
ly indissoluble union, and no neighbor had ever paid court to the 
arnica of Anzoleto. Whether was this owing to her supposed engage- 
ment or to her extreme poverty ! — or was it, perhaps, that her person 
had no attractions for them ? This last supposition is the most pro- 
bable. 

Every one knows, however, that from fourteen to fifteen, girls are 
generally thin, out of sorts, without harmony either as to proportions 
or movements. Towards fifteen, to use a common expression, they 
undergo a sort of fusion, after which they become, if not pretty, at 
least agreeable. It has even been remarked that it is not desirable 
that a young girl should grow good-looking too early. 

Consuelo, like others, had gained all the benefits of adolescence; 
she was no longer called ugly, simply because she had ceased to be so. 
As she was neither Dauphine nor infanta, however, there were no 
crowds of courtiers to proclaim that her royal highness grew day by 
day more beautiful ; and no one was sufficiently solicitous to tell Aii- 
zoleto that he should have no occasion to blush for his bride. 

Since Anzoleto had heard her termed ngly atan age when the word 
had neither sense nor meaning, he had forgotten to think about it; 
his vanity had taken another direction. The theatre and renown 
were all his care, and he had no time to think of conquests. His 
curiosity was appeased— he had no more to learn. At twenty-two he 
was in a measure blas^; yet his affection for Consuelo was tranquil as 
at eighteen, despite a few chaste kisses, taken as they were given, 
without shame. 

Let us not be astonished at this calmness and propriety on the part 
of a youth in other respects not over particular. Our young people 
had ceased to live as described at the beginning of thishistorv. Con- 
suelo, now nearly sixteen, continued her somewhat wandering life, 
leaving the conservatory to eat her rice and repeat her lesson on the 
steps of the Piazetta with Anzoleto. When her mother, worn out by 
fatigue, ceased to sing for charity in the coffee-houses in the evening, 
the poor creature sought refuge in one of the most miserable garrets 
of the Corte Minelli, to die upon a pallet. Then the good Consuelo 


CO N SU ELO. 


45 


quitting her no more, entirely changed her manner of life. Exclusive 
of the hours when the professor deigned to give his lessons, she la- 
bored sometimes at her needle, sometimes at counter-point, but al- 
ways at the bedside of her imperious and despairing mother, who had 
cruelly ill-treated her in her infancy, and who now presented the 
frightful spectacle of a last struggle without courage and without 
virtue. The filial piety and devotion of Consuelo never flagged for a 
single instant. The pleasures of youth and of her free and wander- 
ing life — even love itself— all were sacrificed without a moment’s hes- 
itation or regret. Anzoleto made bitter complaints, but finding re- 
proaches useless, resolved to forget her and to amuse himself; but this 
he found impossible. He had none of the industry of Consuelo; he 
learned quickly but imperfectly the inferior lessons which his teacher, 
to gain the salary promised by Zustiniani, gave him equally quickly 
and equally ill. This was all very well for Anzoleto, in whom prodi- 
gal nature made up for lost time and the effects of inferior instruc- 
tion, but there were hours of leisure during which the friendly and 
cheerful society of Consuelo were found sadly wanting. He tried to 
addict himself to the habits of his class; he frequented public-houses, 
and wasted with young scapegraces the trifling bounties he enjoyed 
through the favor of Count Zustiniani. This sort of life pleased, him 
for some weeks; but he soon found that his health and his voice were 
becoming sensibly impaired — that t\\Q far-niente was not excess, and 
that excess was not his element. Preserved from bad passions 
through a higher species of self-love, he retired to solitude and study; 
but they only presented a frightful mixture of gloom and difficulty. 
He saw that Consuelo was no less necessary to his talents than to his 
happiness. She was studious and persevering — living in an atmosphere 
of music as a bird in the air, or a fish in the wave— loving to^overcome 
difficulties without inquiring into their nature any more than a child 
— but impelled to combat the obstacles and penetrate the mysteries 
of art, by an instinct invisible as that which causes the germ to pen- 
etrate the soil and seek the air. Consuelo enjoyed one of those rare 
and happy temperaments for which labor is an enjoyment, a sort of re- 
pose, a necessary condition, and to which inaction would be an effort, 
a waste, in short, a disease — if inaction indeed to such natures were 
possible. But they know nothing of the kind ; in apparent idleness 
they still labor, but it is not so much reverie as meditation. In see- 
ing them act, one would suppose that they were creating, whereas 
they but give expression to what has been already created. You will 
tell me, gentle reader, that you have never known such rare tempera- 
ments; to which I shall reply, dearly beloved reader, that I have met 
with but one. If so, am I older than you? Why can I not tell you 
that I have analyzed in my own poor brain the d'ivine mystery of this 
intellectual activity? But alas! friendly reader, it is neither you nor 
I who shall study this in ourselves. 

Consuelo worked on, amusing herself the while. She persiste<l foi- 
hours together, either by free and capricious flights of song <)r by 
study on the book, to vanquish difficulties which would have repelled 
Anzoleto if left to himself; and without any idea of emulation or 
premeditated design, she forced him to follow her, to second her, to 
comprehend and to reply to her — sometimes, as it were, in the mid^tj 
of almost childish bursts of laughter — sometimes borne away by the 
poetic and creative fantasia, which pei-vades the p')pidar tempera-, 
ment of Italy and Spain. During the many years in which he was! 


46 


C C) N S U E L (.) . 


influenced by the genius of Consuelo — drinking at a source which ho 
did not comprehend — copying her without knowing it— ^Anzoleto, held 
besides in chains by his indolence, had become a strange compound 
of knowledge and ignorance, of inspiration and frivolity, of power 
^and weakness, of boldness and awkwardness, such as had plunged 
‘Porpora at the last rehearsal into a perfect labyrinth of meditation 
and conjectui’e. The maestro did not know the secret of the riches 
he had borrowed from Consuelo; for having once severely scolded the 
little one for her intimacy with this great idler, he had never again 
seen them together. — Consuelo, bent upon maintaining the good-will 
of her master, took care whenever she saw him at a distance, if in 
company with Anzoleto, to hide herself with agile bounds behind a 
column, or to disappear in the recesses of some gondola. 

These precautions were still continued, when, Consuelo having be- 
come a nurse, Anzoleto, unable to support her absence, and feeling 
life, hope, inspiration, and even existence failing him, returned to share 
her sedentary life, and to bear with her the sourness and angry whims 
of the dying woman. Some months before the close of her life, the 
unhappy creature, broken down by her sufferings, and vanquished by 
the filial piety of her daughter, felt her soul opened to milder emotions. 
She habrtuated herself to the attentions of Anzoleto, who, although 
little’accustorned to acts of friendship and self-denial, displayed a zeal- 
ous kindness and good-will towards the feeble sufferer. Anzoleto had 
an even temper and gentle demeanor. His perseverance towards her 
and Consuelo at length won her heart, and in her last moments she 
made them promise never to abandon each other. Anzoleto promised, 
and even felt in this solemn act a depth of feeling to which he had 
been hitherto a stranger. The dying woman made the engagement 
easier to him by saying: — “ Let her be your friend, your sister, or your 
wife, only leave her not; •>he knows none, has listened to none, but 
you.” 

Consuelo, now an orphan, continued to ply her needle and study 
music, as well to procure means for the present as to prepare for her 
union with Anzoleto. During two years he continued to visit her in 
her garret, without experiencing any passion for her, or being able to 
feel it for others, so much did the charm of being with her seem pi ef- 
erable to all other things. 

Without fully appreciating the lofty faculties of his companion, he 
could see that her attainments and capabilities were superior to those 
of any of the singers at San Samuel, or even to those of Coi-illa her- 
self. To this habitual affection were now added the hope, and almost 
the conviction, that a community of interests would render their fu- 
ture existence at once brilliant and profitable. Consuelo thought lit- 
tle of the future: foresight was not among Ijer good qualities". She 
would have cultivated music without any other end in view than that 
of fulfilling her vocation; and the community of interest which the 
practice of that art was to realise between her and her friend, had no 
other meaning to her than that of an association of baj)|»iness and 
affection. It was therefore without apprising her of it, that he con- 
ceived tlie hope of realizing their dreams; and learning that Zustini- 
ani had decided on replacing Corilla, Anzoleto, sagaciously divining 
the wishes of his patron, had made the proposal which has already 
been mentioned. 

But Consnelo's ugliness— this strange, unexpected, and invincible 
drawback, if the count indeed were not deceived — had struck terror 


CONSUELO 


47 


and consternation to his soul. So he retraced his steps to the Corte 
Minelli, stopping every instant to recal to his mind in a new point of 
view the likeness of his friend, and to repeat again and again, “ Not 
pretty ? — ugly ? — frightful ? ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ Why do you stai:e at me so?’’ said Consuelo, seeing him enter 
her apartment, and fix a steady gaze upon her, without uttering a 
word. “ One would think you had never seen me before.” 

“ It is true, Consuelo,” he replied; “I have never seen you.” 

“ Are you mad? ” continued she; “ I know not what you mean.” 

“ Ah, Heaven ! I fear I am,” exclaimed Anzoleto. I have a dark, 
hideous spot in my brain, which prevents me from seeing you.” 

” Holy Virgin ! you are ill, my friend ! ” 

“ No, dear girl ; calm yourself, and let us endeavor to see clearly. 
Tell me, Consuelo, do you think me handsome? ” 

” Surely I do, since I love you.” 

“ But if you did not love me, what would you think of me then ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? ” 

“ But when you look at other men, do you know whether they a 
liandsome or ugly? ” 

“ Yes; But I think you handsomer than the handsomest.” 

“ Is it because I am so, or because you love me ? ” 

“ Both one and the other, I think. Everybody calls you handsome, 
and you know that you are so. But why do you ask? ” 

“ I wish to know if you would love me were I frightful? 

“ I should not be aware of it, perhaps.” 

“Do you believe, then, that it is possible to love one who is ugly?” 

“ Why not, since you love me ? ” 

“Are you ugly, then, Consuelo? Tell me truly — are you indeed 
ugly? ” 

“ They have told me so — do you not see it? 

“No; in truth, I see no such thing.” • 

“ In that case, I am handsome enough, and am well satisfied.” 

“ Hold there, Consuelo. When you look at me so sweetly, so lov- 
ingly, so naturally, I think you prettier far than Corilla; but I want to 
know if it be an illusion of my imagination, or reality. I know the 
expression of your countenance; I know that it is good, and that it 
pleases me. When I am angry, it calms me ; when sorrowful, it cheers 
me; when I am cast down, it revives me. But your features, Consu- 
elo, I cannot tell if they are ugly or not.” 

“ But I ask you once more, what does it matter?” 

“ I must know; tell me. therefore, if it be possible for a handsonio 
man to love an >igly woman.” 

“ You loved my dear mother, who was no better than a spectre, and 
I loved her so dearly ! ” 

“ And (lid you think her ugly? ” 

“ No ; did you ? ” 

“I thought nothing about it. But to love with passion, Consuelo 
— for. in truth, I love you passionately, do I nol ? 1 cannot live with- 

out you — cannot quit you. Is not that love, Consuelo ? ” 


48 


CONSUELO 


“ Could it be anything else? ” 

“ Could it be friendship ? ” 

“ Yes, it might, indeed, be friendship — ” 

Here the much surprised Consuelo paused and looked attentively 
at Anzoleto, while he, failing into a melancholy reverie, asked himself 
for the first time whether it was love or friendship he felt for Consue- 
lo, or whether the moderation and propriety of his demeanor were 
the result of respect or indifference. For the first time he looked at 
the young girl with the eyes of a youth; analysed, not without diffi- 
culty, her face, her form, her eyes — all the details in fine of which he 
had had hitherto but a confused ideal in his mind. For the first time 
Consuelo was embarrassed by the demeanor of lier friend. She blush- 
ed, her heart beat with violence, and she turned aside her head, una- 
ble to support Anzoleto’s gaze. At last, as he preserved a silence 
which she did not care to break, a feeling of anguish took possession 
of her heart, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she hid her face in her 
hands. 

“ Oh, I see it plainly,” she said; “you have come to tell me that 
you will no longer have me for your sweetheart.” 

“ No, no ; I did not say that — I did not say that ! ” exclaimed Anzo- 
leto, terrified by the tears which he had caused her to shed for the 
first time; and, restored to all Ids brotherly feeling, he folded Consu- 
elo in his arms. But as she turned her head aside, he kissed, in 
place of her calm, cool cheek, a glowing shoulder, ill-concealed by a 
handkerchief of black lace. 

“ I know not well what ails me,” exclaimed Consuelo, tearing her- 
self from his arms; “I think I am ill; I feel as if I were going 
to die.” 

“ You must not die,” said Anzoleto, following and supporting her 
in his arms; “ you are fair, Consuelo — yes, you are fair!” 

In truth, she was then very fair. Anzoleto never inquired how, 
but he could not help repeating it, for his heart felt it warmly. 

“ But,” said Consuelo, pale and agitated, “ why do you insist so on 
finding me pretty to-day ? ” 

“ Would you not wish to be so, dear Consuelo? ” 

. “ Yes, for you! ” 

“ And for others too ? ” 

“ It concerns me not.” 

“ But if it influenced our future prospects?” Here, Anzoleto. see- 
ing the uneasiness which he caused his betrothed, told her candidly 
all that had occurred between the count and himself. And when he 
came to repeat the expressions, anything but flattering, which Zus- 
tiniani had employed when speaking of lier, the good Consuelo, now 
perfectly tranquil, could not restrain a violent burst of laughter, diy- 
ing at the same time her tear-stained eyes. 

“Well?” said Anzoleto, surprised at this total absence of vanity, 
“ do you take it so coolly? Ah! Consuelo, I can see that you are a 
little coquette. You know very well that you are not ugly.” 

“ Listen,” said she, smiling: “since you are so serious^about trifles, 
I find I must satisfy you a little. I never was a coquette, and not 
being handsome, do not wish to seem ridiculous. But as to being 
ugly, I am no longer so.” 

“ Indeed ! Who has told you ? ” 

“ First it was my mother, who was never uneasy about my ugliness, 
I heard her often say that she was far less passable than I in her in- 


CONSUELO 


49 


fancy, and yet when she w'as twenty she was the handsomest girl in 
Burgos. You know that w'hen the people looked at her in the cafes 
wdiere she sang, they said, ‘ this woman must have been once beauti- 
ful.’ See, my good friend, beauty is fleeting; when its possessor is 
sunk in poverty it lasts for a moment, and then is no more. 1 might 
become handsome — w'ho knows? — if I w'as not to be too much ex- 
hausted ; if I got sound rest, and did not sufler too much from hun- 
ger.” 

“ Consuelo, we wdll never part. I shall soon be rich ; you will then 
want for nothing, and can be pretty at your ease.” 

“ Heaven grant it; but God’s will be done! ” 

“ But all this is nothing to the purpose; we must see if the count 
will find you handsome enough for the theatre.” 

“ That hard-hearted count! Let us trust that he will not be too 
exacting.” 

“ First and foremost then, you are not ugly? ” 

“ No ; I am not ugly. I heard the glass-blower over the way there 
say not long ago to his wife — ‘Do you know- that little Consuelo is 
not so much amiss. She has a fine figure, and when she laughs she 
fills one’s heart with joy; but when she sings, oh, how beautiful she 
is! ” 

“ And what did the glass-blower’s wife say ? ” 

“ She said — ‘ What is it to you? Mind your business. What has 
a married man to do with young girls?” 

“ Did she appear angry ? ” 

“ Oh, very angry.” 

“ It is a good sign. She knew that her husband was not far 
wrong. Well, what more? ” 

“ \Wiy, the Countess Moncenigo, who gives out work, and has al- 
W'ays been kind to me, said last week to Dr. Ancillo, wiio was there 
when I called — ‘ Only look, doctor, how this Zitella has grown, how 
fair she is and how well made ! ” 

“ And wiiat did the doctor say ? ” % 

“‘Very true, madam,’ said he; ^ per Bacco ! 1 should not have 
known her: she is one of those constitutions that become handsome 
when they gain a little fat. She will be a fine girl, you will see 
that.’ ” 

“ And what more ? ” 

“ Then the superior of Santa Chiara, for whom I work embroidery 
for the altars, said to one of the sisters — ‘ Does not Consuelo resemble 
Santa Cecilia? Every time that I pray before her image I cannot 
help thinking of this little one, and then I pray for her that she may 
never fall into sin, and that she may never sing but for the church.’ ” 

“And w'hat said the sister?” 

“The sister replied — ‘It is true, mother, it is quite true.’ As 
for myself,! hastened to the church and looked at their Cecilia, which 
is painted by a great master, and is very, very beautiful.” 

“ And like you? ” 

“ A little.” 

“And you never told me that?” 

“ I never thought of it.” 

“ Dear Consuelo, you are beautiful then ? ” 

“ I do not think so; but I am not so ugly as they said. One thing 
is certain— they nolonger call me ugly. Perhaps they think it would 
give me pain to hear it.” 

3 


50 


OONSUELO. 


“Let me see, little Consuelo; look at me. First, you have the 
most beautiful eyes in the world.” 

“ But my mouth is large,” said Consuelo, laughing, and taking up a 
broken piece of looking glass, which served her as a. pysche. 

“It is not very small indeed, but then what glorious teeth! ” said 
Aiizoleto; “they are as white as pearls, and when you smile you 
show them all.” 

“ 111 that case you must say something that will make me laugh, 
when we are with the count.” 

“ You have magnificent hair, Consuelo.” 

“Oh yes; would you like to see it?” And she loosed the pins 
which fastened it, and her dark shining locks fell in flowing masses to 
the floor. 

“ Your chest is broad, your waist small, your shoulders — ah, they 
are beautiful, Consuelo ! ” 

“ My feet,” said Consuelo, turning the conversation, “ are not so 
bad ; ” and she held up a little Andalusian foot, a beauty almost un- 
known in Venice. 

“ Your hand is beautiful, also,” said Anzoleto, kissing for the first 
time the hand which he had hitherto clasped only in companionship. 
“ Let me see your arms.” 

“ But you have seen them a hundred times,” said she, removing 
her long gloves. 

“No; I have never seen them,” said Anzoleto, whose admiration 
every moment increased, and he again relapsed into silence, gazing 
with beaming eyes on the young girl, in whom each moment he dis- 
covered new beauties. 

All at once Consuelo, embarrassed by this display, endeavored to 
regain her former quiet enjoyment, and began to pace up and down 
the apartment, gesticulating and singing from time to time in a some- 
what exaggerated fashion, several passages from the lyric drama. Just 
as if she were a performer on the stage. 

“ Magnificent ! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, ravished with surprise at find- 
ing her capable of a display which she had not hitherto manifested. 

“ It is anything but magnificent,” said Consuelo, reseating herself; 
“ and I hope you only spoke in jest.” 

“ It would be magnificent on the boards, at any rate. I assure you 
there would not be a gesture too much. Corilla would burst with 
jealousy, for it is just the way she gets on when they applaud her to 
the skies.” 

** My dear Anzoleto, I do not wisli that Corilla should grow jealous 
about any such nonsense; if the public were to applaud me merely 
because I knew how to ape her, I would never appear bcio. t them.” 

“ You would do better, then ? ” 

“ I hope so, or I should never attempt it.” 

“ Very well ; how would you manage? ” 

“ I cannot say.” 

“ Try.” 

“No; for all this is but a dream; and until they have decided 
whether I am ugly or not, we had better not plan any more fine pro- 
jects. Perhaps we are a little mad just now, and after all, as the count 
has said, Consuelo may be frightful.” 

'I his last supposition caused Anzoleto to take his leave. 


C ON SUELO 


51 


CHAPTER IX. 

At this period of his life, though almost unknown to biographers, 
Porpora, one of the best Italian composers of the eighteenth century, 
the pupil of Scarlatti, the master of Hasse, Farrinelh,Carfarielli, Min- 
gotti, Salimbini, Hubert (surnamed the Porporino), of Gabrielli, of 
Monteni — in a word, the founder of the most celebrated school of his 
time — languished in obscurity at Venice, in a condition bordering on 
poverty and despair. Nevertheless, he had formerly been director of 
the conservatory of the Ospedaletto in the same city, and this period 
of his life, had been even brilliant. He had there written and pro- 
duced his best operas, his most beautiful cantatas, and his finest 
church music. Invited to Vienna in 1728, he had there, after some 
effort, gained the favor of the Emperor Charles VI. Patronized at 
the court of Saxony, where he gave lessons to the electoral princess, 
Porpora from that repaired to London, where he rivalled for nine or 
ten years the glory of Handel, the master of masters, whose star at 
that period had begun to pale. The genius of the latter however 
obtained the supremacy, and Porpora, wounded in pride and purse, 
had returned to Venice to resume the direction of another conserva- 
tory. He still composed operas, but found it difficult to get them 
represented. His last, although written in Venice, was brought out 
in London, where it had no success. His genius had incurred these 
serious assaults, against which fortune and glory might perhaps have 
sustained him ; but the neglect and ingratitude of Hasse, Farinelli, 
and Cafarielli, broke his heart, soured his character, and poisoned his 
old age. He is known to have died miserable and neglected in his 
eightieth year at Naples. 

At the period when Count Zustiniani, foreseeing and almost desir- 
ing the defection of Gorilla, sought to replace her, Porpora was sub- 
ject to violent fits of ill-humor, not always ’without foundation; for 
if they preferred and sang at Venice the music of Jomelli, of Lotti, 
of Carissimi, of Gaspirini, and other excellent masters, they also 
adopted without discrimination the productions of Cocchi, of Buini, 
of Salvator Apollini, and other local composers, whose common and 
easy style served to flatter mediocrity. The operas of Hasse could 
not please a master justly dissatisfied. The worthy but unfortunate 
Porpora, therefore, closing his heart and ears alike to modern produc- 
tions, sought to crush them under the glory and authority of the an- 
cients. He judged too severely of the graceful compositions of Ga- 
luppi, and even the original fantasies of Chiozetto, a favorite composer 
at Venice. In .short, he would only speak of Martini, Durante, Monte 
Verde, and Palestrina; I do not know if even Marcello and Leo 
found favor in his eyes. It was therefore with reserve and dissatisfac- 
tion that he received the first overtures of Zustiniani concerning his 
poor pupil, whose good fortune and glory ho nevertheless desired to 
promote; for he had too much experience not to be aware of her 
abilities and her deserts. But he shook his head at the idea of the 
proflination of a genius so pure, and so liberally nurtured on the sa- 
cred manna of the old masters, and replied, “ Take her if it must bo 
so— this spotless soul, this stainless intellect— cast her to the dogs, 
hand her over to the brutes, for such seems the destiny of genius at 
the period in which we live.” 


52 


CONSUELO 


This dissatisfaction, at once grave and ludicrous, gave the count a 
lofty idea of the merit of the pupil from the high value which the 
severe master attached to it. 

“ So, so, my dear maestro,” he exclaimed, “ is that indeed your 
opinion? is this Consuelo a creature so extraordinary, so divine? ” 

“You shall hear her,” said Porpora, with an air of resignation, 
while he murmured, “ it is her destiny.” 

The count succeeded in raising the spirits of the master from their 
state of depression, and led him to expect a serious reform in the 
choice of operas. He promised to exclude inferior productions so 
soon as he should succeed in getting rid of Gorilla, to whose caprices 
he attributed their admission and success. He even dexterously gave 
him to understand that he would be very reserved as to Hasse; and 
declared that if Porpora would write an opera for Consuelo, the pupil 
would confer a double glory on her master in expressing his thoughts 
in a style which suited them, as well as realize a lyric triumph for 
San Samuel and for the count. 

Porpora, fairly vanquished, began to tbaw, and now secretly longed 
for the coming out of his pupil, as much as he had hitherto dreaded 
it from the fear that she should be the means of adding fresh lustre 
to the productions of his rivals. But as the count expressed some 
anxiety touching Consuelo’s appearance, he refused to permit him to 
hear her in private, and without preparation. 

“ I do not wish you to suppose,” said he, in reply to the count’s 
questions and entreaties, “that she is a beauty. A poorly-dressed 
and timid girl, in presence of a nobleman and a judge — a child of the 
people, who has never been the object of the slightest attention — can- 
not dispense with some preparatory toilet. And, besides, Consuelo 
is one whose expression genius ennobles in an extraordinary degree. 
She must be seen and heard at the same time. Leave it all to me ; 
if you are not satisfied you may leave her alone, and I shall find out 
means of making her a good nun, who will be the glory of the school, 
and the instructress of future pupils.” Such, in fact, was the destiny 
which Porpora had planned for Consuelo. 

When he saw his pupil again, he told her that she was to be heard 
and an opinion given of her by the count; but as she was uneasy on 
the score of her looks, he gave her to understand that she would not 
be seen — in short, that she would sing behind the organ-screen, the 
count being merely present at the service in the church. He advised 
her, however, to dress with some attention to appearance, as she 
would have to be presented, and though the noble master was poor, 
he gave her money for the purpose. Consuelo, frightened and agitat- 
ed. busied for the first time in her life with attention to her person, 
hastened to see after her toilet and her voice. She tried the last, and 
found it so fresh, so brilliant, and so full, that Anzoleto, to whom she 
sung, more than once repeated with ecstasy, “ Alas ! why should they 
require more than that she knows how to sing? ” 


CHAPTER X. 

On the eve of the important day, Anzoleto found Consuelo’s door 
closed and locked ; and after having waited for a quarter of an hour 


CONSUELO. 


53 


on the stairs, he finally obtained permission to see his friend in her 
festal attire, the effect of which she wished to try before him. She 
had on a handsome flow^ered muslin dress, a lace handkerchief, and 
powder. She was so much altered, that Anzoleto was for some mo- 
ments uncertain whether she had gained or lost by the change. The 
hesitation which Consuelo read in his eyes was as the stroke of a 
dagger to her heart. 

“Ah ! ” said she, “ I see very well that I do not please you. How 
can I hope to please a stranger, when he who loves me sees nothing 
agreeable in my appearance ? ” 

“ Wait a little,” replied Anzoleto. “ I like your elegant figure in 
those long stays, and the distinguished air which this lace gives you. 
The large folds of your petticoat suit you to admiration, but I regret 
your long black hair. However, it is the fashion, and to-morrow you 
must be a lady.” 

“ And why must I be a lady ? For my part I hate this powder, 
which fades one, and makes even the most beautiful grow old before 
her time. I have an artificial air under all these furbelows; in short, 
I am not satisfied with myself, and I see you are not so either. Oh ! 
by-the-bye, I was at rehearsal this morning, and saw Clorinda, who 
also w^as trying on a new dress. She was so gay, so fearless, so hand- 
some, (oh! she must be happy! — you need not look twice at her to be 
sure of her beauty), that I feel afraid of appearing beside her before 
the count.” 

“ You may be easy; the count has seen her, and has heard her, 
too.” 

“ And did she sing badly ? ” 

“ As she always does.” 

“ Ah ! my friend, those rivalries spoil the disposition. A little 
while ago, if Clorinda, who is a good girl, notwithstanding her vanity, 
had been spoken of unfavorably by a judge, I should have been sorry 
tor her from the bottom of my heart; I should have shared her grief 
and humiliation; and now I find myself rejoicing at it! To strive, to 
envy, to seek to injure each other, and all that for a man whom we 
love not, nay! but whom we know not! I feel very low-spirited, my 
dear love, and it seems to me as if I were as much frightened by the 
idea of succeeding as by that of failing. It seems as if our happiness 
was coming to a close, and that to-morrow, after the trial, whatever 
may be the result, I shall return to this poor apartment a different 
person from what I have hitherto lived in it.” 

Two large tears rolled down over Consuelo’s cheeks. 

“ Well, are you going to cry now?” said Anzoleto. “What can you 
be thinking of? You will dim your eyes, and swell your eyelids. 
Your eyes, Consuelo! do not spoil your eyes, which are the most 
beautiful feature in your face.” 

“ Or rather the least ugly,” said she, wiping away her tears. “ Come, 
when we give ourselves up to the world we have not even the right 
to weep.” 

Her friend tried to, comfort her, but she was exceedingly dejected 
all the rest of the day ; and in the evening, when she was again alone, 
she brushed out the powder, uncurled her ebon hair, and sleeked it, 
tried on a little black silk dress, well preserved, and still nearly new, 
her usual Sunday garb, and regained a portion of her confidence on 
once more recognising herself in her mirror. Then she prayed fer- 
vently, and thought of her mother, until, melted to tears, she criad 


54 


CONSUELO. 


herself to sleep. When Anzoleto came to see her the following day, 
to take her to church, she was sitting at her spinnet, practising her 
first air, and her hair dressed as on every Sunday.— “ What! ” he ex- 
claimed, “ not dressed yet? unpowdered still? It is almost the hour; 
what can vou be about, Consuelo ? ” 

“ My dear, she replied, steadily, “ I wear my hair as it is. I am 
ready as I am. I am tranquil, and shall go thus. This fine black 
dress does not suit me. My black hair pleases you better than powder. 
These corsets do but check my breath. Do not endeavor to change 
my resolution ; I have made up my mind. I have prayed to God to 
direct me, and my mother to watch over my conduct. God has di- 
rected me to be quiet and simple. My mother has visited me in my 
dreams, and she said what she always used to say : ‘ Try to sing well, 
Providence will do the rest.’ I saw her take my fine dress, my laces, 
and- my ribbons, and put them away in the cupboard; and then she 
laid my black frock and white muslin mantilla on the chair by the bed- 
side ; when I awoke, I locked up my full dress as I saw her do in the 
dream, and put on my black frock and mantilla, as you see me. I have 
more courage, now that I have given up the idea of pleasing by graces 
which Ido not comprehend. Listen to my voice; after all, every- 
thing lies in that,” — and she sounded a note. 

“ Good Lord ! we are ruined ! ” cried Anzoleto. “ Your voice is 
voile* and your eyes are bloodshot. You have been crying all night, 
Consuelo. This is a pretty business! I say we are ruined ! It is ab- 
surd to wear mourning on a holiday ; besides, it is unlucky, and it does 
not become you. Come, be quick — put on your fine, full dress, while 
I go and get you some rouge. You are pale as a ghost! ” 

The poor girl’s mind was again agitated, and her tears flowed afresh. 
Anzoleto was vexed more and more, and while they were still debat- 
ing, the clock struck the fatal hour. Consuelo, pale and trembling, 
looked at herself for the last time in the little broken mirror. Then, 
turning ronnd, sprang impetuously into Anzoleto’s arms. “ Oh, my 
beloved,” she cried, “ do not swear at me. Clasp me more closely in 
your arms, to give some color to my pale cheeks. Be your kiss to my 
cheeks as was the sacred fire which kindled Isaiah’s lips, and may God 
pardon us for doubting His assistance 1 ” 

Then she cast her mantilla eagerly over her head, snatched up her 
music books, and hurrying away her dispirited lover, made haste to 
the church of the Mendicant!, whither the crowd were already flock- 
ing, to listen to Porpora’s admirable music. Anzoleto, more dead 
than alive, went to seek the count, who had given him the meeting in 
the organ-loft, while Consuelo went up to the organ-loft, in which the 
choirs were already in air, with the professor at his desk. Consuelo 
was not aware that the count’s tribune was so contrived that he 
could look into the organ-loft more easily than into the church — that 
he had already fixed his eyes on her, and was watching her every ges- 
ture. 

Her features, however, he could not yet distinguish, for on entering 

o Voile. We have thought it advisable to leave this word untranslated, although 
nothing m general is more abominable than to see books professing to be written 
in the English language, interlarded with foreign words or phrases. This word 
voile is, however, a musical technicality, and can be expressed by no English word. 
It does not inean husky exactly, nor hoarse, nor thick, but something interme- 
diate. The literal meaning of the word being veiled or shrouded, which, as ao- 
phed to a voice in English, would be simply nonsense. 


CONSUELO. 


55 


sh<; knelt down, buried her face in her hands, and prayed fervently 
and devoutly. “ Oh, my God,” she cried, with the voice of the Injart 
“ thou knowest that I seek not advancement for the humiliation of 
my rivals. Thou knowest that I have no thought to surrender myself 
to the world and worldly acts, abandoning thy love, and straying into 
the paths of vice. Thou knowest that pride dwells not in me, and 
that I implore thee to support me, and to swell my voice, and to ex- 
pand my thoughts as I sing thy praises, only that I may dwell with 
him whom my mother permitted me to love.” 

When the first sounds of the orchestra called Consuelo to her place, 
she rose slowly, her mantilla fell from her shoulders, and her face was 
at length visible to the impatient and restless spectators in the neigh- 
boring tribune. But what marvellous change is here in this young 
girl, just now so pale, so cast down, so overwhelmed by fatigue and 
fear! The ether of heaven seemed to bedew her lofty forehead, \ 

while a gentle languor was diffused over the noble and graceful out- 
lines of her figure. Her tranquil countenance expressed none of 
those petty passions, which seek, and as it were, exact applause. 

There was something about her solemn, mysterious, and elevated — at 
once lovely and affecting. 

“ Courage, my daughter,” said the professor, in a low voice. “ You 
are about to sing the music of a great master, and he is here to listen 
to you.” 

‘‘Who? — Marcello?” said Consuelo, seeing the professor lay the 
Hymns of Marcello open on the desk. 

“ Yes — Marcello,” replied he. “ Sing as usual — nothing more and 
nothing less — and all will be well.” 

Marcello, then in the last year of his life, had in fact come once 
again to revisit Venice, his birth-place, where he had gained renown 
as composer, as writer, and as magistrate. He had been full of cour- 
tesy towards Porpora, who had requested him to be present in his 
school, intending to surprise him with the performance of Consuelo, 
who knew his magnificent “7 deli immensi narrano’^ by heart. 

Nothing could be better adapted to the religious- glow that now an- 
imated the heart of this noble girl. So soon as the first words of this 
lofty and brilliant production shone before her eyes, she felt as if 
wafted into another sphere. Forgetting Count Zustiniani — forgetting 
the spiteful glances of her rivals — forgetting even Anzoleto — she 
thought only of God and of Marcello, who seemed to interpret those 
wondrous regions w'hose glory she was about to celebrate. What sub- 
ject so beautiful ! — what conception so elevated 1 — 

I cieli immensi narrano 
Del grandi Iddio la gloria 

II firmamento lucido 
All universe annunzia 
Quanto sieno mirabili 
Della sua destra le opere. 

A divine glow overspread her features, and the sacred fire of genius 
darted from her large black eyes, as the vaulted roof rang with that 
unequalled voice, and with those lofty accents wdiich could only pro- 
ceed from an elevated intellect, joined to a good heart. After he had 
listened for a few instants, a torrent of delicious tears streamed from 
Marcello’s eyes. The count, unable to restrain his emotion, exclaim- 
ed — “ By the Holy Rood, this woman is beautiful! She is Santa Ce- 
cilia, Santa Teresa, Santa Consuelo! She is poetry, she is music, she 


56 


CONSUELO. 


Is faith personified ! ” As for Anzoleto,'wbo had risen, and whoso 
trembling knees barely sufficed to sustain him with the aid of his 
hands, which clung convulsively to the grating of the tribune, he 
fell back upon his seat, ready to swoon, intoxicated with pride and 

joy- 

It required all the respect due to the locality, to prevent the numer- 
ous dilettanti in the crowd from bursting into applause, as if they had 
been in the theatre. The count would not wait till the close of the 
service to express his enthusiasm to Porpora and Consuelo. She was 
obliged to repair to the tribune of the count to receive the thanks 
and gratitude of Marcello. She found him so much agitated as to be 
hardly able to speak. 

“ My daughter,” said he, with a broken voice, “ receive the blessing 
of a dying man. You have caused me to forget for an instant the 
mortal suffering of many years. A miracle seems exerted in my be- 
half, and the unrelenting, frightful malady appears to have fled forever 
at the sound of your voice. If the angels above sing like you, I shall 
long to quit the world in order to enjoy that happiness which you 
have made known to me. Blessings then be on you, oh my child, and 
may your earthly happiness correspond with your deserts ! I have 
heard Faustina, Romanina, Cuzzoni, and the rest; but they are not 
to be named along with you. It is reserved for you to let the world 
hear what it has never yet heard, and to make it feel what no man 
has ever yet felt.” 

Consuelo, overwhelmed by this magnificent eulogium, bowed her 
head, and almost bending to the ground, kissed, without being able to 
utter a word, the livid fingers of the dying man, then rising, she cast 
a look upon Anzoleto which seemed to say — “ Ungrateful one, you 
knew not what I was ! ” 


CHAPTER XI. 

During the remainder of the service, Consuelo displayed energy 
and resources w'hich completely removed any hesitation Count Zustin- 
iani might have felt respecting her. She led, she animated, she sus- 
tained the choir, displaying at each instant prodigious powers, and the 
varied qualities of her voice rather than the strength of her lungs. 
For those who know how to sing do not become tirkl, and Consuelo 
sang with as little effort and labor as others might have in merely 
breathing. She was heard above all the rest, not because she scream- 
ed like those performers, without soul and without breath, but be- 
cause of the unimaginable sweetness and purity of her tones. Be- 
sides, she felt that she was understood in every minute particular. 
She alone, amidst the vulgar crowd, the shrill voices and imperfect 
trills of those around her, was a musician and a master. She filled 
therefore instinctively and without ostentation her powerful part, and 
as long as the service lasted she took the prominent place which she 
felt was necessary. After all w as over, the choristers imputed it to 
her as a grievance and a crime; and those very persons who, failing 
and sinking, had as it were implored her assistance with their looks, 
claimed for themselves all the eulogiums which were given to the 


C ON SUELO. 


57 


school of Porpora at large. At these eulogiums the master smiled 
and said nothing; but he looked at Consuelo, and Anzoleto under- 
stood very well what his look meant. 

After the business of the day was over, the choristers partook of a 
select collation which the count had caused to be served up in one of 
the parlors of the convent. Two immense tables in the form of a 
half-moon were separated by the grating, in the centre of which, over 
an immense gate, there was an opening to pass the dishes, which the 
count himself gracefully handed round to the principal nuns and pu- 
pils. The latter, dressed as Beguines, came by dozens alternately to 
occupy the vacant places in the interior of the cloisters. The supe- 
rior, seated next the grating, was thus at the right hand of the count as 
regarded the outer hall; the seat on his left was vacant. Marcello, 
Porpora, the curate of the parish, and the officiating priests, some 
dilettanti patricians, and the lay administrators of the school, together 
with the handsome Anzoleto with his black coat and sword, had a 
place at the secular table. The young singers, though usually ani- 
mated enough on such occasions, what with the pleasure of teasting, 
of conversing with gentlemen, the desire of pleasing, or at least of 
being observed — were on that day thoughtful and constrained. The 
project of the count had somehow expired — for what secret can be 
kept in a convent without oozing out? — and each of these young girls 
secretly flattered herself that she should be presented by Porpora in 
order to succeed Gorilla. The professor was even malicious enough 
to encourage their illusions, whether to induce them to perform bet- 
ter before Marcello, or to revenge himself for the previous aniioyaiice 
during their course of instruction. Certain it is that Clorinda, who 
was one of the out-pupils of the conservatory, was there in full attire, 
waiting to take her place beside the count ; but when she saw the de- 
spised Consuelo, with her black dress and tranquil mein, the ugly 
creature whom she affected to despise, henceforth esteemed a musi- 
cian and the only beauty of the school, she became absolutely fright- 
ful with anger — uglier that Consuelo had ever been — ugly as Yenus 
herself would become were she actuated by a base and degrading mo- 
tive. Anzoleto, exulting in his victory, looked attentively at her, seated 
himself beside her, and loaded her with absurd compliments which she 
had not sense to understand, but which nevertheless consoled her. 
She imagined she would revenge herself on her rival by attracting her 
betrothed, and spared no pains to intoxicate him with her charms. 
She was no match however for her companion, and Anzoleto was 
acute enough to load her with ridicule. 

In the mean time Count Zustiniani, upon conversing with Con- 
suelo, was amazed to find her endowed with as much tact, good 
sense, and conversational powers, as he had found in her talent and 
ability at church. Absolutely devoid of coquetry, there was a cheer- 
ful frankness and confiding good nature in her manner which m- 
spired a sympathy equally rapid and irresistible. When the repast 
was at an end, he invited her to take the air in his gondola with his 
friends. Marcello was excused on account of his failing health ; but 
Porpora, Barberigo, and other patricians were present, and Anzoleto 
was also of the party. Consuelo, who felt not quite at home among 
so many men, entreated the count to invite Clorinda ; and Zustiniani, 
who did not suspect the badinage of Anzoleto with this poor girl, was 
not sorry to see him attracted by her. The noble count, thanks to 
the sprightliness of his character, his fine figure, his wealth, his thea- 


CON SUELO 


58 

tre, and also the easy manners of the country and of the time, had a 
strong spice of conceit in his character. Fired by the wine of Greece 
and by his musical enthusiasm, and impatient to revenge himself- on 
the perfidious Gorilla, he thought there was nothing more natural 
than to pay his court to Consuelo. Seating himself therefore beside 
her in the gondola, and so arranging that the young people should 
occupy the other extremity, he began to direct glances of a very sig- 
nificant character on his new flame. The simple and upright Con- 
suelo took no notice. Her candor and good principle revolted at 
the idea that the protector of her friend could harbor ill designs ; 
indeed, her habitual modesty, in no way affected by the splendid tri- 
umph of the day, would have made it impossible for her to believe it. 
She persisted therefore in respecting the illustrious signor, who 
adopted her along with Anzoleto, and continued to amuse herself 
with the party of pleasure, in which she could see no harm. 

So much calmness and good faith surprised the count, who re- 
mained uncertain whether it was the joyous submission of an unre- 
sisting heart or the unsuspiciousness of perfect innocence. At eight- 
een years of age, however, now, as well as a hundred years ago, espec- 
ially with a friend such as Anzoleto, a girl could not be perfectly ig- 
norant. Every probability was in favor of the count ; nevertheless, 
each time that he seized the hand of his protegee, or attempted to 
steal his arm round her waist, he experienced an indefinable fear, and 
a feeling of uncertainty — almost of respect, which restrained him, he 
could not tell how. 

Barberigo thought Consuelo sufficiently attractive, and he would in 
his turn gladly have maintained his pretensions, had he not been re- 
strained by motives of delicacy towards the count. “ Honor to all,” 
said he to himself, as he saw the eyes of Zustiniani swimming in an 
atmosphere of voluptuous delight; “my turn will come next.” 
Meanwhile the young Barberigo, not much accustomed to look at the 
stars when on excursions with ladies, inquired by what right Anzoleto 
should appropriate the fair Clorinda ; and approaching, he endeav- 
ored to make him understand that his place was rather to take the 
oar than to flirt with ladies. Anzoleto, notwithstanding his acute- 
ness, was not well-bred enough to understand at first what he meant ; 
besides, his pride was fully'on a par with the insolence of the pa- 
tricians. He detested them cordially, and his apparent deference 
towards them merely served to disguise his inward contempt. Bar- 
berigo, seeing that he took a pleasure in opposing them, bethought 
himself of a cruel revenge. “ By Jove!” said he to Clorinda, “ your 
friend Consuelo is getting on at a furious rate; I wonder where she 
will stop. Not contented with setting the town crazy with her voice, 
she is turning the head of the poor count. He will fall madly in love, 
and Gorilla’s affair will be soon settled.” 

“Oh, there is nothing to fear,” exclaimed Clorinda, mockingly; 
“ Consuelo’s affections are the property of Anzoleto here, to whom in 
fact she is engaged. They have been burning for each other, I don’t 
know how many years.” 

“ I do not know how many years may be swept away in the twink- 
ling of an eye,” said Barberigo, “ especially when the eyes of Zustin- 
iani take it upon them to cast the mortal dart. Do not you think so, 
beautiful Clorinda?” ’ 

Anzoleto could bear it no longer. A thousand serpents already 
found admission into his bosom. Hitherto such a suspicion had 


CONSUELO. 


59 


never entered his mind. He was transported with joy at witnessing 
his friend’s triumpli, and it was as much to give expression to his 
transports as to amuse his vanity, that he occupied himself in rallying 
the unfortunate victim of the day. After some cross purposes with 
Barberigo, he feigned a sudden interest in a musical discussion which 
Porpora was keeping up with some of the company in the centre of 
the bark, and thus leaving a situation which he had now no longer 
any wish to retain, he glided along unobserved almost to the prow. 
He saw at the first glance that Zustiniani did not relish his attempt to 
interrupt this tete-a-tete with his betrothed, for he replied coolly, and 
even with displeasure. At last, after several idle questions badly re- 
ceived, he was advised to go and listen to the instructions which the 
great Porpora was giving on counterpoint. 

“ The great Porpora is not my master,” said Anzoleto, concealing 
the rage which devoured him. “ He is Consuelo’s master; and if it 
would only please your Highness,” said he, in a low tone, bending to- 
wards the count in an insinuating manner, “ that my poor Consuelo 
should receive no other lessons than those of her old teacher. — ” 

“ Dear and well-beloved Zoto,” replied the count caressingly, but at 
the same time with profound malice, “ I have a word for your ear ; ” 
and leaning towards him he added: “Your betrothed has doubtless 
received lessons from you that must render her invulnerable ; but if I 
had any pretension to offer her others, I should at least have the right 
of doing so during one evening.” 

Anzoleto felt a chill run through his frame from head to foot. 

“ Will your gracious Highness deign to explain yourself? ’’ said he, 
in a choking voice. 

“ It is soon done, my good friend,” replied the count in a clear tone 
— “ gondola for gondola.’’ 

Anzoleto was terrified when he found that the count had discov- 
ered his tete-a-tete with Gorilla. The foolish and audacious girl had 
boasted to Zustinani in a violent quarrel that they had been together. 
The guilty youth vainly pretended astonishment. “ You had better 
go and listen to Porpora about the principle of the Neapolitan 
schools,” said the count; “you will come back and tell me about it, 
for it is a subject that interests me much.” 

“ I perceive, your Excellency,” replied Anzoleto, frantic with rage 
and ready to dash himself into the sea. 

“ What! ” said the innocent Consuelo, astonished at his hesitation, 
“ will you nqt go ? Permit me. Signor Count; you shall see that I am 
willing to serve you.” And before the count could interpose, she 
bounded lightly over the seat which separated her from her old master, 
and sat down close beside him. 

The count, perceiving that matters were not far enough advanced, 
found it necessary to dissemble. “Anzoleto,” said he, smiling, and 
pulling the ear of his protege a little too hard, “ my revenge is at an 
end. It has not proceeded nearly so far as your deserts ; neither do I 
make the slightest comparison between the pleasure of conversing in 
the presence of a dozen persons with your fair friend and the tete-a- 
tete which you have enjoyed in a well-closed gondola with mine.” 

“ Signor Count! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, violently agitated, “ I pro- 
test on my honor ” 

“ Where is your honor? ” resumed the count; “ is it in your left 
ear?” And he menaced the unfortunate organ with an infliction 
similar to that which he had just visited the right. 


60 


CONSUELO. 


“Do you suppose your protege has so little sense,” said Anzoleto 
recovering his presence of mind, “ as to be guilty of such folly ? ” 

“ Guilty or not,” rejoined the count, drily, “ it is all the same to 
me.” And he seated himself beside Consuelo. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The musical dissertation was continued until they reached the 
palace of Zustiniani, where they arrived towards midnight, to partake 
of coffee and sherbet. From the technicalities of art they had passed 
on to style, musical ideas, ancient and modern forms; from that to ar- 
tists and their different modes of feeling and expressing themselves. 
Porpora spoke with admiration of his master Scarlatti, the first who 
had imparted apathetic character to religious compositions; but there 
he stopped, and would not admit that sacred music should trespass 
upon profane, in tolerating ornaments, trill, and roulades. 

“ Do you, then, Signor,” said Anzoleto, “ find fault with these and 
other difficult additions, which have nevertheless constituted the glory 
and success of your illustrious pupil F{),rinelli ? ” 

“ I only disapprove of them in the church,” replied the maestro ; “ I 
would have them in their proper place, which is the theatre. I wish 
them of a, pure, sober, genuine taste, and appropriate in their modu- 
lations, not only to the subject of which they treat, but to the person 
and situation that are represented, and the passion which is expressed. 
The nymphs and shepherds may warble like any birds; their ca- 
dences may be like the flowing fountain ; but Medea or Dido can only 
sob and roar like a wounded lioness. The coquette, indeed, may 
load her silly cavatina with capricious aud elaborate ornament. Go- 
rilla excels in this description of music; but once she attempts to ex- 
press the deeper emotions, the passions of the human heart, she be- 
comes inferior even to herself. In vain she struggles, in vain she 
swells her voice and bosom — a note misplaced, an absurd roulade, par- 
odies in an instant the sublimity which she had hoped to reach. You 
have all heard Faustina Bordini, now Madame Hasse: in situations, 
appropriate to her brilliant qualities, she had no equal; but whenl 
Cuzzoni came, with her pure, deep feeling, to sing of pain, of prayer, 
or tenderness, the tears which she drew forth banished in an instant 
from your heart the recollection of Faustina. The solution of this is 
to be found in the fact that there is a showy and superficial cleverness, 
very different from lofty and creative genius. There is also that 
which amuses, which moves us, which astonishes, and which com- 
pletely carries us away. I know very well that sudden and startling 
effects are now in fashion ; but if I taught them to my pupils as use- 
ful exercises, I almost repent of it when I see the majority so abuse ' 
them — so sacrifice what is necessary to what is superfluous — the last- 
ing emotion of the audience to cries of surprise and the starts of a fe- 
verish and transitory pleasure. 

No one attempted to combat conclusions so eternally true with re- 
gard to all the arts, and which will be always applied to their varied 
manifestations by lofty minds. Nevertheless, the count, who was cu- 
rious to know how Consuelo would sing ordinary music, pretended to 




CONSUELO. 


61 


combat a little the severe notions of Porpora ; but seeing that the 
modest girl, instead of refuting his heresies, ever turned her eyes to 
her old master as if to solicit his victorious replies, he determined to 
attack herself, and asked her “ if she sang upon the stage with as 
much ability and purity as at church ? ” 

“ I do not think,” she replied, with unfeigned humility, “that I 
should there experience the same inspirations, or acquit myself near- 
ly so well.” 

“ This modest and sensible reply satisfies me,” said the count ; 
“ and I feel assured that if you will condescend to study those bril- 
liant difficulties of which we every day become more greedy, you will 
sufficiently inspire an ardent, curious, and somewhat spoiled public.” 

“ Study ! ” replied Porpora, with a meaning smile. 

“ Study ! ” cried Anzoleto, with superb disdain. 

“ Yes, without doubt,” replied Consuelo, with her accustomed 
sweetness. “ Though I have sometimes labored in this direction, I 
do not think I should be able to rival the illustrious performers who 
have appeared in our time.” 

“ You do not speak sincerely,” exclaimed Anzoleto, with anima- 
tion. “ Eccellenza, she does not speak the truth. Ask her to try the 
most elaborate and difficult airs in the repertory of the theatre, and 
you will see what she can do.” 

“ If I did not think she were tired,” said the count, whose eyes 
sparkled with impatience and curiosity. Consuelo turned hers art- 
lessly to Porpora, as if to await his command. 

“ Why, as to that,” said he, “ such a trifle could not tire her; and 
as we are here a select few, we can listen to her talent in every de- 
scription of music. Come, Signor Count, choose an air, and accom- 
pany it yourself on the harpsichord.” 

“ The emotion which the sound of her voice would occasion me,” 
replied Zustiniani, “ would cause me to play falsely. Why not accom- 
pany her yourself, maestro: ” 

“ I should wish to see her sing,” continued Porpora: “ for between 
us be it said, I have never seen her sing. I wish to know how she de- 
means herself, and what she does with her mouth and with her eyes. 
Come, my child, arise; it is for me as well as for you that this trial is 
to be made.” 

“ Let me accompany her, then,” said Anzoleto, seating himself at 
the instrument. 

“ You will frighten me, O my master!” said Consuelo to Porpora. 

“ Fools alone are timid,” replied the master. “ Whoever is inspir- 
ed with the love of art need fear nothing. If you tremble it is 
because you are vain; if you lose your resources, it is because they 
are false ; and if so, I shall be one of the first to say : ‘ Consuelo is 
good for nought.’ ” 

And without troubling himself as to what effect these tender en- 
couragements might produce, the professor donned his spectacles, 
placed himself before his pupil, and began to beat the time on the 
harpischord to give the true movement of the ritornella. They choso 
a brilliant, strange, and difficult air from an opera buffa of Galuppi, 
— The Diodolessa , — in order to test her in a species of art the most 
opposite to that in w’hich she had succeeded in the morning. The 
voung girl enjoyed a facility so prodigious as to be able, almost with- 
out study, and as if in sport, to overcome, with her pliable and pow- 
erful voice, all the difficulties of execution then known. Porpora had 


62 


C O N S U E L O. 


recommended and made her repeat such exercises from time to time, 
in order to see that she did not neglect them ; but he was quite una- 
ware of the ability of his wonderful pupil in this respect. As if to re- 
venge himself for the bluntness which he had displayed, Consuelo was 
roguish enough to add to The JXavole.sfia a multitude of turns and or- 
naments until then esteemed impracticable, but which she improvised 
with as much unconcern and calmness as if she had studied them 
with care. 

These embellishments were so skilftd in their modulations, of a 
character so energetic, wild, and startling, and mingled in the midst 
of their most impetuous gaiety with accents so mournful, that a shud- 
der of terror replaced the enthusiasm of the audience; and Porpora, 
rising suddenly, cried out with a loud voice: “You are the devil in 
person ! ” 

Consuelo brought her air to a close with a crescendo di forza, 
which produced bursts of applause, and taking her seat again began 
laughing merrily. 

“ Naughty girl,” cried Porpora. “ This trick you have played me, 
deserves the gallows. You have made a fool of me, concealing from 
me half your studies and powers. It is matiy ^ day since you have 
had aught to learn of me; and you have taken my lessons treacher- 
ously ; to steal my secrets of composition and of teaching, I fancy, and 
so to outdo me in everything, and make me pass for an old-fashioned 
pedagogue.” 

“ Master mine,” Consuelo made reply, “ what have I done but imi- 
tate your trick upon the Emperor Charles? You have related that to 
me already, many times. — How his Imperial Majesty detested trills, 
and forbade your introducing one into your oratorio; and how, after 
obeying his orders rigidly unto the very end of the piece, you gave 
him a divertissement at the last fugue, in perfectly good taste, b%in- 
ning with four ascending trills, afterwards repeated infinitely in the 
stretto by all the parts. You have discoursed all this evening on the 
abuse of ornament, and you end by ordering'me to execute them. I 
executed too niany, in order to prove myself capable of extravagance 
— a fault to which I willingly plead guilty.” 

“I tell you that you are Beelzebub incarnate,” answered Porpora. 
“Now then play some human air, and sing it according to your own 
notions, for I perceive that I, at least, can teach you no longer.” 

“ You will always be my revered, always my beloved master,” cried 
she, falling on his neck and clasping him in her arms. “ It is to you 
only that I owe my livelihood, mylnstructions for the last ten years. 
Oh, , master, I have heard say that you have formed but ungrateful 
pupils; but may God deprive me at once of the power of livi^ng and 
of singing, if my heart is tainted with the full venom of ingratitude!” 

Porpora grew pale, spoke a few indistinct words, and kissed the 
brow of his pupil paternally; but with the kiss he left a tear, which 
Consuelo, who would not wipe it, felt drying on her forehead,— the icy 
bitter tear of unhappy age, and unappreciated genius. A sort o‘f 
superstitious horror overwhelmed her with deep" emotion, and her 
gaiety was overshadowed, and her liveliness extinguished for the 
night. An hour afterwards, when all the set terms of admiration had 
been lavished on her— not of that only, but of rapture and surprise 
—without drawing her from her gloom, they asked for a specimen of 
her dramatic skill. She sang a grand aria of Jomelli's opera, “ Didone 
AbandonataT Never had she felt before the >vish to give her sadness 


CONSUELO 


63 


vent. In tbe pathetic, the simple, the grand — she was sublime; and 
her face showed fairer yet, and more expressive than it had done 
while she sang in church. Her complexion was flushed with a 
feverish glow; her eyes lightened with asti-ange and lurid lustre. She 
was a saint no longer — ^^but what suited better far, she was a woman 
tortured by devouring' love. The count, his friend Baiberigo, Anzo- 
leto, all the auditors, even, I believe, to old Porpora himself, were al- 
most beside themselves. Clorinda was choking with envy. Then 
Consuelo, on the count’s telling her that her engagement should be 
drawn and signed to-morrow, asked him to promise her yet another 
favor, and to plight his w'ord like a knight of old, to grant a request 
which he had not heard. He did so,.and the party broke up, exhaust- 
ed with that sweet emotion which is produced by great effect, and 
wielded at will by great intellects. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

While Consuelo was achieving all these triumphs, Anzoleto had 
lived so completely in her as to forget himself; nevertheless, when the 
count in dismissing him mentioned the engagement of his betrothed, 
without saying a word of his own, he called to mind the coolness 
with which he had been treated during the evening, and the dread of 
being ruined without remedy poisoned all his joy. The idea darted 
across his mind to leave Consuelo on the steps, leaning on Porpoi-a’s 
arm, and to return to cast himself at the feet of his benefactor; but 
as at this moment he hated him, we must say in his praise that he 
withstood the temptation to humiliate himself. When he had taken 
leave of Porpora, and repaired to accompany Consuelo along the 
canal, the gondoliers of the count informed him that by the commands 
of their master the gondola waited to conduct the signoia home. A 
cold perspiration burst upon his forehead. “ The signora,” said he, 
rudely, “is accustomed to use her owai limbs; she is much obliged to 
the count for his attentions.” 

“ By what right do you refuse for her?” said the count, who w'as 
close behind him. Anzoleto turned and saw him, not with uncovered 
head, as a man w'ho dismissed his guests, but with his cloak throw'll 
over his shoulders, his hat in one hand, and his sword in the other, 
as one who seeks adventures. Anzoleto was so enraged, that a 
thought of stabbing him with the long narrow knife wdiich a Venetian 
always carried about concealed on his person, flashed across his mind. 
“ I hope. Signora,” said the count, in a firm voice, “ that you will not 
offer me the affront of refusing my gondola to take yon home, and 
causing me the vexation of not permitting me to assist you to enter 
it.” 

Consuelo, always confiding, and suspecting nothing of w'hat passed 
around her, accepted the offer, thanked him, and placing her pretty 
rounded elbow' in the hand of the count, she spiang without ceremo- 
ny into the gondola. Then a dumb but energetic dialogue took place 
between tlie Count and Anzoleto. The count, with one foot on the 
bank and one on the bark, measured Anzoleto with his eye, who, 
standing on the last step of the stairs leading from the water’s edge 


64 


C O N S U E L O, 


to the palace, measured him with a fierce air in return, his hand in 
his breast, and grasping the handle of his knife. A single step, and 
the count was lost. What w'as most characteristic of the Venetian 
disposition in this rapid and silent scene, was, that the two rivals 
watched each other without either hastening the catastrophe. The 
count was determined to torture his rival by apparent in-esolution, 
and he did so at leisure, although he saw and comprehended the ges- 
ture of Anzoleto. On his side, Anzoleto had strength to wait, with- 
out betraying himself, until it would please the count to finish his 
malicious pleasantry or to surrender life. This pantomime lasted two 
minutes, which seemed to Anzoleto an age, and which the count sup- 
ported with stoical disdain. The count then made a profound bow 
to Consuelo, and turning towards his protege, “ I permit you also,” 
said he, “ to enter my gondola; in future you will know how a gallant 
man conducts himself;” and he stepped back to allow Anzoleto to 
pass into the boat. Then he gave orders to the gondolier to row to 
the Corte Minelli, while he remained standing on the bank, motionless 
as a statue. It almost seemed as if he awaited some new attempt 
at murder on the part of his humiliated rival. 

“How does the count know your abode?” was the first word 
which Anzoleto addressed to his betrothed, when they were out of 
sight of the palace of Zustlniani. 

“ Because I told him,” replied Consuelo. 

“ And why did you tell him?” 

“ Because he asked me.” 

“ You do not guess then why he wished to know? ” 

“ Probably to convey me home.” 

“ Do you think so? Do you think he will not come to see you?” 

“ Come to see me ? what madness ! And in such a wretched abode I 
That would be an excess of politeness which I should never wish.” 

“ You do well not to wish it, Consuelo; for excess of shame might 
ensue from this excess of honor.” 

“Shame! and why shame to me? In good faith I do not under- 
stand you to-night, dear Anzoleto; and I think it rather odd that you 
should speak of things I do not comprehend, instead of expressing 
your joy at our incredible and unexpected success.” 

“ Unexpected indeed,” returned Anzoleto, bitterly. 

“ It seemed to me that at vespers, and while they applauded me this 
evening, you were even more enchanted than I was. You looked at 
me with such passionate eyes that my happiness was doubled in see- 
ing it reflected from you. But now you are gloomy and out of sorts, 
just as when we wanted bread, and our prospects were uncertain. 

“ And now you wish that I should rejoice in the future? Possibly 
it is no longer uncertain, but assuredly it presents nothing cheering 
for me.” 

“What more would we have? It is hardly a week since you ap- 
peared before the count and were received with enthusiasm.” 

“ My success was infinitely eclipsed by yours — you know it well.” 

“I hope not; besides, if it were so, there can be no jealousy be- 
tween us.” 

These ingenuous words, uttered with the utmost truth aud tender- 
ness, calmed the heart of Anzoleto. “Ah, you are right,” said he 
clasping his betrothed in his arms; “ we cannot be jealous of each 
other, we cannot deceive each other:” but as he uttered these words 
he recalled with remorse his adventure with Gorilla, and it occurred to 


C O N S U E L O, 


65 

ilim that the count, in /)rder to punish him, might reveal his conduct 
to Consuelo whenever he had reason to suppose that she in the least 
encouraged him. He fell into a gloomy reverie, and Consuelo also 
became pensive. 

“ Why,” said she, after a moment’s silence, “ did you say that we 
could not deceive each other? It is a great truth surely, but why did 
you just then think of it? ” 

“ Hush ! let us not say another word in this gondola,” said Anzo- 
leto; “ they will hear what we say, and tell it to'the count. This vel- 
vet covering is very thin, and these palace gondolas have recesses four 
times as deep and as large as those for hire. Permit me to accom- 
pany you home,” said he, when they had been put ashore at the en- 
trance of the Corte Minelli. 

“ You know that it is contrary to our usage, and engagement,” re- 
plied she. 

‘‘ Oh do not refuse me,” said Anzoleto, “ else you will plunge me 
into fury and despair.” 

Frightened by his tone and his words, Consuelo dared no longer re- 
fuse; and when she had lighted her lamp and drawn the curtains, 
seeing him gloomy and lost in thought she threw her arms around 
him. “ How unhappy and disquieted j^ou seem this evening! ” said 
she ; “ what is passing in your mind ? ” 

“ Do you not know. Consuelo? do you not guess? ” 

“ No, on my soul ! ” 

“ Swear that you do not guess it. Swear it by the soul of your 
mother — by your hopes of heaven ! ” 

“Oh, I swear it!” 

“And by our love?” 

“ By our love.” 

“ I believe you, Consuelo, for it would be the first time you ever 
uttered an untrutli ! ” 

“ And now will you explain yourself.” 

“ I shall explain nothing. Perhaps I may have to explain myself 
soon ; and when that moment comes, and when you have too well 
comprehended me, woe to us both, the day on which you know what 
I now suffer! ” 

“ O Heaven ! What new misfortune threatens us? what curse as- 
sails us, as we re-enter this poor chamber, where hitherto we had no 
secrets from each other? Something too surely told me when I left 
it this morning that I should return with death in my soul. What 
have I done that I should not enjoy a day that promised so well ? 
Have I not prayed God sincerely and ardently? Have I not thrust 
aside each proud thought? Have I not suffered from Clorinda’s hu- 
miliation? Have I not obtained from the count a promise that he 
should engage her as seconda donna with us? What have I done, 
must I again ask, to incur the sufferings of which you speak — which 
I already feel since you feel them? ” 

“And did you indeed procure an engagement for Clorinda?,” 

“I am resolved upon it, and the count is a man of his word. This 
poor girl has always dreamed of the theatre, and has no other means 
of subsistence.” 

“ And do you think that the count will part with Rosalba, who 
knows something, for Clorinda, who knows nothing? ” 

“ Rosalba wil 1 follow her sister Corilla’s fortunes ; and as to Clorinda 
we shall give her lessons, and teach to turn her voice, which is not 


66 


CONSUELO. 


amiss, to the best account. The public, besides, will be indulgent to 
a pretty girl. Were she only to obtain a third place, it would be 
always something — a beginning — a source of subsistence.” 

“You are a saint, Consuelo; you do not see that this dolt, in ac- 
cepting your intervention, although she should be happy in obtaining 
a third or even a fourth place, will never pardon you for being first.” 

“What signifies her ingratitude? I know already what ingratitude 
and the ungrateful are.” 

“ You ! ” said Anzoleto, bursting into a laugh, as he embraced her 
with all his old .brotherly warmth. 

“Oh,” replied she, enchanted at having diverted him from his 
cares, “ I should alwa 5 'S have before my eyes the image of my noble 
master Porpora. Many bitter words he uttered which he thouglit 
me incapable of comprehending; but they sank deep into my heart, 
and shall never leave it. He is a man who has suffered greatly, and 
is devoured by sorrow. From his grief and his deep indignation, as 
well as what has escaped from him before me, I have learned that 
artists, my dear Anzoleto, are more wicked and dangerous than I 
could suppose— that the public is fickle, forgetful, cruel, and unjust— 
that a great career is but a heavy cross, and that glory is a crown of 
thorns. Yes, I know all that, and 1 have thought and reflected upon 
it so often, that I think I should neither be astonished nor cast down 
were I to experience it myself. Therefore it is that you have not 
been able to intoxicate me by the triumph of to-day — therefore it 
is your dark thoughts have not discouragetl me. I do not yet compre- 
hend them very well ; but I know that with you, and provided you 
love me, I shall strive not to hate and despise mankind like my poor 
unhappy master, that noble yet simple old man. 

In listening to his betrothed, Anzoleto recovered his serenity and 
his courage. She exercised great influence over him, and each day 
he discovered in her a firmness and rectitude which supplied every- 
thing that was wanting in himself. The terrors with which jealousy 
had inspired him, were forgotten at the end of a quarter of an hour’s 
conversation; and when she questioned him .again he w.as so much 
ashamed of having suspected a being so pure and so calm, that he 
ascribed his agitation to other causes. “ I am only afraid,” said he, 
“ that the count will find you so superior, that he shall judge me 
unworthy to appear with you before the public. He seemed this 
evening to have forgotten my very existence. He did not even per- 
ceive that in accompanying you I played well. In fine, when he told 
you of your engagement, he did not say a word of mine. How is it 
that you did not remark that? ” 

“ It never entei‘ed my head that I should be engaged without you. 
Does he not know that nothing would persuade me to it? — that we 
are betrothed ?— that we love each other? Have you not told him all 
this?” 

“ I Inye told him so, but perhaps he thinks that I wish to boast, 
Consudlo.” ^ 

“ In that easel shall boast myself of my love, Anzoleto: I shall 
tell him so that he cannot doubt it. But you are deceived, my friend • 
the count has not thought it necessary to speak of your engagement* 
because it was a settled thing since the day that you sung so well, 
at his house.” ® 

“ But not yet ratified, and your engagement he has told you will 
be signed to-morrow.” j 


CONSUELO. . 6T 

“ Do you think I shall sign the first? Oh, no ! you have done well 
to put me on my guard. My name shall be written below yours.” 

“ You swear it? ” 

“ Oh, fie ! Do you ask oaths for what you know so well ? Truly 
you do not love me this evening, or you would not make me suffer by 
seeming to imagine that I did not love you.” 

At this thought Consuelo's eyes filled with tears, and she sat down 
with a pouting air, which rendered her charming. I am a focrt — an 
ass! thought Anzoleto. “How could I for one instant suppose that 
the count could triumph over a soul so pure — an affection so full and 
entire ? He is not so inexperienced as not to perceive at a glance that 
Consuelo is not for him. and he would not have been so generous as 
to offer me a place in his gondola, had be not known that he would 
have played the part of a fool there. No, no ; my lot is well assured 
— my position unassailable. Let Consuelo please him or not, let him 
love, pay court to her — all that can only advance my fortunes, for she 
will soon learn to obtain what she wishes without incurring any dan- 
ger. Consuelo will soon be better informed on this head than myself. 
She is prudent, she is energetic. The pretensions of the dear count 
will only turn to my profit and glory.” 

And thus adjuring all his doubts, he cast himself at the feet of his 
betrothed, and gave vent to that passionate enthusiasm which he now 
experienced for the first time, and which his jealousy had served for 
some hours to restrain. 

“ O my beauty — my saint — my queen ! ” he cried “ excuse me fbr 
having thought of myself before you, as I should have done, on finding 
myself again with you in this chamber. I left it this morning in anger 
with you. Yes, yes; I should have re-entered it upon my knees. 
How could you love and smile upon a brute like me? Strike me with 
your fan, Consuelo; place your pretty foot upon my neck. You are 
greiiter than I am by a hundred fold, and I am your slave forever 
from this day.” 

“ I do not deserve these fine speeches,” said she, abandoning her- 
self to his transports ; “ and I excuse your doubts, because I compre- 
hend them. It was the fear of being separated from me — of seeing 
our lot divided — which caused you all this unhappiness. You have 
failed in your faith in God, which is much worse than having accused 
me. But I shall pray for you, and say — ‘ Lord, forgive as I forgive 
him.’ ” 

While thus innocently and simply expressing her love, and mingling 
with it that Spanish feeling of devotion so full of human affection 
and ingenuous candor, Consuelo was beautiful. Anzoleto gazed on 
her with rapture. 

“Oh, thou mistress of my soul!” he exclaimed, in a suffocated 
voice, “ be mine for ever more ! ” 

“ When you will — to-morrow,” said Consuelo, with a heavenly 
smile. 

“ To-morrow? and why to-morrow? ” 

“ You are right; it is now past midnight — we may be married to- 
day. When the sun rises let us seek the priest. We have no friends, 
and the ceremony need not be long. I have the muslin dress which 
I have never yet worn. When I made it, dear Anzoleto, I said to 
myself— ‘ Perhaps I may not have money to purchase my wedding 
dress, and if my friend should soon decide on marrying mo, I would 
be obliged to wear one that I have had on already.’ That, they say, 


CONSUELO. 


68 

is unlucky. So, when my mother appeared to me in a dream, to take 
it from me and lay it aside, she knew what she did, poor soul ! There- 
fore, by to-morrow’s sun we shall swear at San Samuel fidelity for 
ever. Did you wish to satisfy yourself first, wicked one, that 1 was 

not ugly?” ^ . r .. 

“O Consuelo!” exclaimed Anzoleto, with anguish, “you are a 
child. We could not marry thus, from one day to another, without 
its being known. The Count and Porpora, whose protection is so 
necessary to us, would be justly irritated if we took this step without 
consulting or even informing them. Your old master does not like 
me too well, and the count, as I. know, does not care much for mar- 
ried singers. We cannot go to San Samuel, where everybody knows 
us, and where the first old woman we met would make the palace ac- 
quainted with it in half an hour. We must keep our union secret.” 

“ No, Anzoleto,” said Consuelo, “ I cannot consent to so rash— so 
ill-advised a step. I did not think of the objections you have urged 
to a public marriage ; but if they are well founded, they apply with 
equal force to a private and clandestine one. It was not I who first 
spoke of it. Anzoleto, although I thought more than once that we were 
old enough to be married ; yet it seemed right to leave the decision to 
your prudence, and, if I must say it, to your wishes; for I saw very 
well that you were in no hurry to make me your wife, nor had I any 
desire to remind you. You have often told me that before settling 
ourselves, we must think of our future family, and secure the needful 
resources. My mother said the same, and it is only right. Thus, all 
things considered, it would be too soon. First, our engagement must 
be signed— is not that so ? — then we must be certain of the good will 
of the public. We can speak of all this after we make our debut. But 
why do you grow pale, Anzoleto? Why do you wring your hands? 
O Heavens! are we not happy? Does it need an oath to insure our 
mutual love and reliance? ” ' 

“ O Consuelo 1 how calm you are ! — how pure ! — how cold ! ” ex- 
claimed Anzoleto, with a sort of despair. 

“ Cold ! ” exclaimed the young Spaniard, stupefied, and crimsoned 
wuth indignation. *■ God, who reads my heart, knows whether I love 
you ! ” 

“Very well,” retorted Anzoleto, angrily; “ throw yourself into his 
bosom, for mine is no safe refuge ; and I shall fly lest I become im- 
pious.” 

Thus saying he rushed towards the door, believing that Consuelo, 
who had hitherto never been able to separate from him in any quar- 
rel however trifling, would hasten to prevent him; and in fact she 
made an impetuous movement as if to spring after him, then stopped, 
saw him go out, ran likewise to the door, and put her hand on the 
latch in order to call him back. But summoning up all her resolution 
by a superhuman effort, she fastened the bolt behind him, and then, 
overcome by the violent struggle she had undergone, she swooned 
away upon the floor, where she remained motionless till daybreak. 




C O N 3 U E L O. 


69 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“I MUST confess that I am completely enchanted with her,” said 
Count Ziistiniani to his friend Barberigo, as they conversed together 
on the balcony of his palace about two o’clock the same night. 

“ That is as much as to say that I must not be so,” i-eplied the 
young and brilliant Barberigo, “ and I yield the point, for your rights 
take precedence of mine. Nevertheless, if Corilla should mesh you 
afresh in her nets, you will have the goodness to let me know, that I 
may try and win her ear.” 

“Do not think of it, if you love me. Corilla has never been other 
than a plaything. I see by your countenance that you are but mock- 
ing me.” 

“ No, but I think that the amusement is somewhat serious which 
causes us to commit such follies and incur such expense.” 

“ I admit that I pursue my pleasures with so much ardor that I 
spare no expense to prolong them ; but in this case it is more than 
fancy — it is passion which I feel. I never sav/ a creature so strangely 
beautiful as this Consuelo; she is like a lamp that pales from time to 
time, but which at the moment when it is apparently about to expire, 
sheds so bright a light that the very stars are eclipsed.” 

“Ah!” said Barberigo, sighing, “ that little black dress and white 
collar, that slender and half devout toilet, that pale, calm face, at first 
so little striking, that frank address and astonishing absence of co- 
quetry — all become transformed, and, as it were, grow' divine when 
inspired by her own lofty genius of song. Happy Ziistiniani, wdio 
hold in your hands the destinies of this dawning star! ” 

“Would I w'ere secure of the happiness which you envy! But I 
am discouraged when I find none of those passions with which I am 
acquainted, and which are so easy to bring into play. Imagine, friend, 
that this girl remains an enigma to me even after a whole day’s study 
of her. It would almost seem from her tranquillity and my awkward- 
ness. that I am already so far gone that I cannot see clearly.” 

“ Truly you are captivated, since you already grow blind. I, whom 
hope does not confuse, can tell you in three words what you do not 
understand. Consuelo is the flower of innocence; she loves the little 
Anzoleto, and will love him yet for some time ; but if you affront this 
attachment of cliildhood, you will only give it fresh strength. Ap- 
pear to consider it of no importance, and the comparison which she 
will not fail to make between you and him will not fail to cool her 
preference.” 

“ But the i-ascal ig as handsome as an Apollo, he has a magnificent 
voice, and must succeed. Corilla is already crazy about him; he is 
not one to be despised by a girl who has eyes.” 

“ But he is poor, and you are rich— he is unknown, and you are 
powerful. The needful thing is to find out whether they are merely 
betrothed, or whether a more intimate connexion binds them. In 
the latter case Consuelo’s eyes will soon be opened ; in the former 
there will be a struggle and uncertainty which will but prolong her 
anguish.” 

“ I must then desire what I horribly fear, and which maddens me 
with rage when I think of it. What do you suppose? ” 

“ I thhik they are merely betrothed.” 


70 


CONSUELO, 


“ But it is impossible. He is a bold and ardent youth, and then the 
manners of those people ! ” 

“ Consuelo is in all respects a prodigy. You have had experience 
to little purpose, dear Zustiniani, if you do not see in all the move- 
ments, all the looks, all the words of this girl, that she is pure as the 
ocean gem.” 

“ You transport me w'ith joy.” 

“ Take care — it is folly, prejudice. If you love Consuelo, she must 
be married to-morrow, so that in eight days her master may make her 
feel the weight of her chain, the torments of jealousy, the ennui of a 
troublesome, unjust, and faithless guardian ; for the handsome Anzo- 
leto will be all that. I could not observe him yesterday between Con- 
suelo and Clorinda without being able to prophesy her wrongs and 
misfortunes. Follow my advice, and you will thank me. The bond 
of marriage is easy to unloose between people of that condition, and 
you know that with women love is an ardent fancy which only in- 
creases with obstacles.” 

“ You drive me to despair,” replied the count; “nevertheless,! feel 
that you are right. ” 

Unhappily for the designs of Count Zustiniani, this dialogue had a 
listener upon whom they did not reckon, and who did not lose one syl- 
lable of it. After quitting Consuelo, Anzoleto, stung with jealousy, 
had come to prowl about the palace of his protector, in order to assure 
himself that the count did not intend one of those forcible abductions 
then so much in vogue, and for which the patricians had almost entire 
impunity. He could hear no more, for the moon, wdiich just then 
arose over the roofs of the palace, began to cast his shadow on the 
pavement, and the two young lords, perceiving that a man was under 
the balcony, withdrew and closed the window. 

Aiizoleto disappeared in order to ponder at his leisure on wdiat he 
had just heard; it was quite enough to direct him what course to take 
in order to profit by the virtuous counsels of Barberigo to his friend. 
He slept scarcely two hours, and immediately when he awoke ran to 
the Corte Minelli. The door was still locked, but through the chinks 
he could see Consuelo, dressed, stretched on the bed and sleeping, pale 
and motiotdess as death. The coolness of the morning had roused her 
from her swoon, and she threw herself on the bed without having 
strength to undress. He stood for some moments looking at her with 
remorseful disquietude, but at last becoming uneasy at this heavy sleep, 
so contrary to the active habits of his betrothed, lie gently enlarged an 
opening through which he could pass his knife and slide back tlm bolt. 
Tiiis occasioned some noise: but Consuelo, overcome with fatigue, 
was not awakened. He then entered, knelt down beside her coiich, 
and remained tlius until she awoke. On finding him there, Consuelo 
uttered a cry of joy, but instantly taking away her arms, which she 
had thrown round his neck, she drew back with an expression of 
alarm. 

“lou dread me now, and instead of embracing, fly me,” said he 
with grief. “Oh, I am cruelly punished for my'fauit; pardon me, 
Cotisuelo, and see if you have ever cause to mistrust your friend 
again. I have watched you sleeping fora whole hour; pardon me, 
sister— it is the first and last time yo\i shall have to blame or repulse 
your brother; Hshall never more offend you by my jealousies or pas- 
sions. Leave me, banish me, if I fail in my oath. Are you satisfied, 
dear and good Consuelo?” 


CONSUELO. 


71 

Consuelo only replied by pressing; the fair head of the Venetian to 
her heart, and bathing it with tears. This outburst comforted her; 
and soon after falling back on her pillow, “ I confess,” said she, “ that 
I am overcome; I hardly slept all night, we parted so unhaijpily.” 

“ Sleep, Consuelo; sleep, dear angel,” replied Anzoleto. “Do you 
remember the lught that you allowed me to sleep ou your couch, 
while you worked and prayed at your little table? It is now my 
turn tp watch and protect you.— Sleep, my child: I shall turn over 
your music and read it to myself whilst you repose an hour or two; 
no one will disturb us before the evening. Sleep, then, and prove by 
this confidence that you pardon and trust me.” 

Consuelo replied by a heavenly smile. He kissed her forehead and 
placed himself at the table, while she enjoyed a refreshing sleep, min- 
gled with sweet dreams. 

Anzoleto had lived calmly and innocently too long with this young 
girl to render it difficult after one day’s agitation, to regain his usual 
demeanor. This brotherly feeling wkis, as it were, the ordinary condi- 
tion of his soul; besides, what he had heard the preceding night un- 
der the balcony of Zustiniani, was well calculated to strengthen his 
faltering purpose. “ Thanks, my brave gentlemen,” said he to him- 
self; “ you have given me a lesson whicli the rascal will turn to ac- 
count just as much as one of your own class. I shall abstaiti from 
jealousy, infidelity, or any weakness which may give you an advan- 
tage over me. Illustrious and profound Barberigo ! your prophecies 
bring counsel ; it is good to be of your school.” 

Thus reflecting, Anzoleto, overcome by a sleepless night, dozed in 
his turn, his head supported on his hand, and his elbows on the 
table; but his sleep w’as not sound, and the daylight had begun to de- 
cline as he rose to see if Consuelo still slumbered. The rays of the 
setting sun streaming through the window, cast a glorious purple 
tinge on the old bed and its beautiful occupant. Her white mantilla 
she had made into a curtain, which was secured to a filagree crucifix 
nailed to the wall above her head. Her veil fell gracefully over her 
well-proportioned and admirable figure; and, bathed in this rose-col- 
ored light as a flower which closes its leaves together at the approach 
of evening, her long* tresses falling upon her white shoulders, her 
hands crossed on her bosom as a saint on her marble tomb, she looked 
so chaste and heavenly that Anzoleto mentally exclaimed, “Ah, 
Count Zustiniani, that you could see her this moment, and behold the 
prudent and jealous guardian of a treasure you vainly covet, beside 
her! ” 

At this moment, a faint noise was heard outside, and Anzoleto, 
whose faculties were kept on the stretch, thought he recognised the 
splashing of water at the foot of Consuelo's ruined dwelling, although 
gondolas rarely approached the Corte Minelli. He mounted on a 
chair, and was by this means able to see through a sort of loop-hole 
near the ceiling, which looked tow'ards the canal. He distinctly saw 
Count Zustiniani leave his bark, and question the half-naked children 
who played on the beach. He was uncertain whether he should 
awaken his betrothed or close the door; but, during the ten minutes 
which the count occupied in finding out the garret of Consuelo, he 
had time to regain the utmost self-possession and to leave the 
door ajar, so that anyone might enter without noise or hindrance; 
then reseating himself, he took a pen and pretended to write music. 
He appeared perfectly calm and tranquil, although his heart beat vio- 
lently. 


C 0 N S U E L O. 


72 

The count slipped in,rejoicin" in the idea of surprising his protegee 
whose obvious destitution he conceived would favor his corrupt in- 
tentions. He brought Consuelo’s engagement ready signed along 
with him, and he thought with such a passport his reception could 
not be very discouraging; but at the first sight of the strange sanctu- 
ary in which this sweet girl slept her angelic sleep under the watch- 
ful eye of her contented lover, Count Zustiniani lost his presence of 
mind, entangled his cloak which he had thrown with a conquerihg air 
over his shoulders, and stopped between the bed and the table, utter- 
ly uncertain whom he should address. Anzoleto was revenged for the 
scene at the entrance of the gondola. 

“ My lord,” he exclaimed, rising, as if surprised by an unexpected 
visit, ‘‘shall I awake my betrothed?” 

“No,” replied the count, already at his ease, and affecting to turn 
his back that he might contemplate Consuelo; “ I am so happy to see 
her thus, 1 forbid you to awaken her.” 

“ Yes, you may look at her,” thought Anzoleto; “ it is all I wished 
for.” 

Consuelo did not awaken, and the count, speaking in a low tone 
and assuming a gracious-and tranquil. aspect, expressed his admiration 
without restraint. “ You were right, Zoto,” said he with an easy air; 
“ Consuelo is the first singer in Italy, and I was wrong to doubt that 
she was the most beautiful woman in the world.” 

“ Your highness thought her frightful, however,” said Anzoleto, 
maliciously. 

“You have doubtless complained to her of all my folly; but I re- 
serve to myself the pleasure of obtaining pardon by so honorable and 
complete an apology, that you shall not again be able to injure me in 
recalling my errors.” 

“Injure you. Signor Count! — how could I do so even had I the 
wish ? ” 

Consuelo moved. “ Let us not awaken her too suddenly,” said the 
count, and clear this table, that I may place on it and read, her en- 
gagement. Hold!” said he when Anzoleto had obeyed him; “cast 
your eyes over this paper, while we wait for hers'to open.” 

“ An engagement before trial! — it is magnificent, my noble patron. 
And she is to appear at once, before Corilla’s engagement has ex- 
pired ? ” 

“That is nothing; there is some trifling debt of a thousand sequins 
or so due her, which we shall pay off.” 

“ But what if Corilla should rebel ! ” 

“ We will confine her under the leads.” 

“ ’Fore Heaven ! nothing stops your highness.” 

“ Yes, Zoto ” replied the count coldly; “ thus it is: what We desire 
vve do, towards one and all.” 

“And the conditions are the same as for Corilla — the same condi- 
tions for a debutante without name or reputation, as for an illustrious 
performer adored by the public. 

“ The new singer shall have even more; and if the conditions 
granted her predecessor do not satisfy her, she. has only to say a word 
and they shall be iloubled. Everything depends upon herself,” con- 
tinued he, raising his voice a little, as he perceived that Consuelo was 
awake: “ her fate is in her own hands.” 

Consuelo had heard all this partially, through her sleep. When she 
had rubbed her eyes, and assured herself that she Vas hot dreaming^ 


C O N S U E L O. 


73 

she slid down into the space between the bed and the wall, without 
considering the strangeness of her position, and after arranging her 
hair, came forward with ingenuous confidence to join in the conver- 
sation. 

“ Signor Count,” said she, “ jmu are only too good ; but I am not 
so presumptuous as to avail myself of your offer. 1 will not sign this 
engagement until I have made a trial of my powers before the public. 
Ic would not be delicate on my part. I might not please — I might in- 
cur a fiasco and be hissed. Even should I be hoarse or unprepared, 
or even ugly that day, your word would still be pledged — you would 
be too proud to take it back, and I to avail myself ofit.” 

“Ugly on that day, Consuelo — you ugly!” said the count, looking 
at her with burning glances; “come now,” he added, taking her by 
the hand and leading her to the mirror, “ look at yourself there. If 
you are adorable in this costume, what would you be, covered wdth 
diamomls and radiant with triumph?” 

The count’s impertinence made Anzoleto gnash his teeth; but the 
calm indifference with which Consuelo received his compliments re- 
strained his impatience. “ Sir,” said she, pushing back the fragment 
of a lookingrglass which he held in his hand, “ do not break my mir- 
ror; it is the only one I ever had, and it has never deceived me. — 
Ugly or pretty, I refuse your liberality; and I may tell you frankly 
that I shall not appear unless my betrothed be similarly engaged. I 
will have no other theatre nor any otlier public except his; we cannot 
be separate, being engaged to each other.” 

This abrupt declaration took the count a little unawares, but he soon 
regained his equanimity. 

“ You are right, Consuelo,” replied he; “ I never intended to sepa- 
arate you : Zoto shall appear with yourself. At the same time I can- 
not conceal from you that his talents, although remarkable, are much 
inferior to yours.” 

“ 1 do not believe it, my lord,” said Consuelo, blushing as if she had 
received a personal insult. 

“ 1 hear that he is your pupil, much more than that of the maestro 
I gave him. Do not deny it, beautiful Con.suelo. On learning your 
intimacy, Poi'pora exclaimed, ‘lam no longer astonished at certain 
qualities he possesses, which I was unable to reconcile with his de- 
fects,’ ” 

“ Thanks to the Signor Professor,” said Anzoleto, with a forced 
smile. 

“lie will change his mind,” said Consuelo, gaily — “besides, the 
public will contradict this dear good master.” 

•• The dear good master is the best judge of music in the world,” re- 
plied the count. “Anzoleto will do well to profit by your lessons; 
hut we cannot arrange the terms of his agreement before we have as- 
certained the sentiments of the public. Let him make his appear- 
ance, and we shall settle with him according to justice and our own 
favorable feeling towards him, on which he has every reason to rely.” 

“ Tlien let us both make our appearance,” replied Consuelo: “ but 
no signature — no agreement before trial; on that I am determined.” 

“ You are not satisfied with my terms, Consuelo ; very well, then 
you shall dictate them yourself; here is the pen — add — take away — 
my signature is below.” 

Consuelo seized the pen; Anzoleto turned pale, and the count, who 
observed him, chewed vvith pleasure the end of the ruffle which ho 


74 


C O N S U E L O, 


twisted in his fingers. Consuelo erased the contract, and wrote upon 
the portion remaining above the signature of the count — 

“ Anzoleto and Consuelo severally agree to such conditions as it 
shall please Count Zustiniani to impose, after their.first appearance, 
which shall take place during the ensuing month at the theatre of 
San Samuel.” 

She signed rapidly, and passed the pen to her lover. 

“ Sign without looking,” said she. “ You can do no less to prove 
your gratitude, and your confidence in your benefactor.” 

Anzoleto had glanced over it in a twinkling; he signed — it was but 
the work of a moment. — The count read over his shoulder. 

“ Consuelo,” said he, “ you are a strange girl — in truth an admirable 
creature. You will both dine with me,” he continued, tearing the 
contract and ofiering his hand to Consuelo, who accepted it, but at the 
same time requested him to wait with Anzoleto in his gondola while 
she should arrange her toilet. 

“ Decidedly,” said she to herself when alone, “ I shall be able to buy 
a new marriage robe.” She then arranged her muslin dress, settled 
her hair, and flew down the stairs singing with a voice full of fresh- 
ness and vigor. The count, with excess of courtesy, had waited for 
her with Anzoleto at the foot of the stair. She believed him^ further 
off, and almost fell into his arms, but suddenly disengaging 'herself, 
slie took his hand and carried it to her lips, after the "fashion of the 
country, with the> respect of an inferior who does not wish to infringe 
upon the distinctions of rank; then turning she clasped her betrothed, 
and bounded with joyous steps towards the gondola, without await- 
ing the ceremonious escort of her somewhat mortified protector. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The count seeing that Consuelo was insensible to the stimulus of 
gain, tried to flatter her vanity by offering her jewels arnl ornaments; 
but these she refused. Zustiniani at first imagined that she was 
aware of his secret intentions; but he soon saw that it was but a 
species of rustic pride, and that she would receive no recompense un- 
til she had earned it by working for the prosperity of his theatre. 
He obliged her however to accept a white satin dress, observing that 
she could not appear with propriety in her muslin robe in his saloon, 
and adding that he would consider it a favor if she would abandon 
the attire of the people. She submitted her fine figure to the fashion- 
able milliners, who made the very most of it, and did not spare the 
material. Thus transformed in two days into a woman of the world, 
and induced to accept a necklace of fine pearls which the count pre- 
sented to her as payment for the evening when she sang before him 
and his friends, she was beautiful, if not according to her own peculiar 
style of beauty, at least as she should be admired by the vulgar. This 
result however was not perfectly attained. At the first glance Con- 
suelo neither struck nor dazzled anybody; she was always pale, and 
her modest, studious habits took from her look that brilliant glanco 
which we witness in the eyes of women whose only object is to 
shine. The basis of her character, as well as the distinguishing 


CONSUELO 


peculiarity of her countenance, was a reflective seriousness.— One 
might see her eat, and talk, and weary herself with the trivial con- 
cerns of daily life, without even supposing that she was pretty; but 
once the smile of enjoyment, so easily allied to serenity of soul, came 
to light np her features, how charming she became! And when she 
was further animated— when she interested herself seriously in tlie 
business of the piece — when she displayed tenderness, exaltation of 
mind, the manifestation of her inward life and hidden power — she 
shone resplendent with all the fire of genius and love, she was 
another being, the audience were hurried away — passion-stricken as it 
were — annihilated at pleasure — without her being able to explain the 
mystery of her power. 

What the count experienced for her therefore astonished and an- 
noyed him strai.igely. There were in this man of the world artistic 
chords which had never yet been struck, and which she caused to thrill 
with unknown emotions; but this revelation could not penetrate the 
patrician’s soul suflicieutly to enable him to discern the impotence and 
poverty of the means by which he attempted to lead away a woman 
so different from those he had hitherto endeavored to corrupt. 

He took patience and determined to try the effects of emulation. 
He conducted her to his box in the theatre that she might witness 
Gorilla’s success, and that ambition might be awakened in her; but 
the result was quite different from that which he expected from it. 
Consuelo left the theatre, cold, silent, fatigued, and in no way excited 
by the noise and applause. Gorilla was deficient in solid talent, noble 
sentiment, and well-founded power: and Gonsuelo felt quite compe- 
tent to form an opinion of this forced, factitious talent, already vitiated 
at its source by selfishness and excess. She applauded unconsciously, 
uttered words of formal approval, and disdained to put on a mask of 
enthusiasm for one whom she could neither fear nor admire. The 
count for a moment thought her under the influence of secret jealousy 
of the talents, or at least of the person, of the prima donna. “ This 
is nothing,” said he, “ to the triumphs you will achieve when you ap- 
pear before the public as you have already appeared before me. I 
hope that you are not frightened by what you see.” 

“No, Signor Gount,” replied Gonsuelo, smiling; “the public fright- 
ens me not, for I never think of it. I only think of what might be 
realized in the part which Gorilla fills in so brilliant a manner, but in 
which there are many defects which she does not perceive.” 

“What! you do not think of the public?” 

“No; 1 think of the piece, of the intentions of the composer, of the 
spirit of the part, and of the good qualities and defects of the orches- 
tra, from the former of which we are to derive advantage, while we 
are to conceal the latter by a louder intonation at certain parts. I 
listen to the choruses, which are not always satisfactory, and re(iuire 
a more strict direction; I examine the passages on which all one's 
strengtli is required, and also those of course where it may advan- 
tageously be reserved. You will perceive, Signor Gount, that 1 have 
many things to think of besides the public, who know nothing about 
all that I Imve mentioned, and can teach me nothing.” 

This grave judgment and serious inquiry so surprised Zustiniani 
that he could iiot utter a single question, and asked himself, witli some 
trepidation, what hold a gallant like himself could have on genius of 
this stamp. 

The appearance of the two debutants was preceded by all the usual 


76 


CONSUELO. 


inflated announcements; and this was the source of continual discus- 
sion and difference of opinion between the count andPorpora, Consu- 
clo and her lover. The old master and his pupil blamed the quack 
announcements and all those thousand unworthy tricks which have 
driven us so far into folly and bad faith. In Venice during those days 
the journals had not much to say as to public affairs; they did not 
concern themselves with the composition of the audience; they were 
unaware of the deep resources of public advertisements, the gossip of 
biographical announcements, and the powerful machinery of hired ap- 
plause. There was plenty of bribing and not a few cabals, but all 
this was concocted in coteries, and brought about through the instru- 
mentality of the public, warmly attached to one side or sincerely hostile 
to the other. Art was not always the moving spring; passions great 
and small, foreign alike to art and talent, then as now, came to do 
battle in the temple; but they were not so skilful in concealing these 
sources of discord, and in laying them to the account of pure love for 
art. At bottom, indeed, it was the same vulgar, worldly spirit, with a 
surface less complicated by civilization. 

Zustiniani managed these affairs more as a nobleman than the con- 
ductor of a theatre. His ostentation was a more powerful impulse 
than the avarice of ordinary speculators. He prepared the public in 
his saloons, and warmed up his representations beforehand. It is true 
his conduct was never cowardly or mean, but it bore the puerile stamp 
of self-love, a busy gallantry, and the pointed gossip of good society. 
He therefore proceeded to demolish, piece by piece, with considerable 
xrt, the edifice so lately raised by his own hands to the glory of Corilla. 
Everybody saw that he wanted to set iip in its place the miracle of 
talent; and as the exclusive possession of this wonderful phenomenon 
was ascribed to him, poor Consuelo never suspected the nature of his 
intentions towards her, although all Venice knew that the count, dis- 
gusted with the conduct of Corilla. was about to introduce in her place 
another singer; while many added, “Grand mystification for the 
public, and great prejudice to the theatre; for his favorite is a little 
street singer, who has nothing to recommend her except her fine voice 
and tolerable figure.” 

Hence arose fresh cabals for Corilla, who went about playing the 
part of an injured rival, and who implored her extensive circle of 
adorers and their friends to do justice to the insolent pretensions of 
the zingarella. Hence also new cabals in favor of Consuelo, by a 
numerous party, who, although differing widely on other subjects, 
united in a wish to mortify Corilla and elevate her rival in her place. 

As to the veritable dilettanti of music, they were equally divided 
between the opinion of the serious masters — such as Porpora, Mar- 
cello, and Jomelli, who predicted with the appearance of an excellent 
musician, the return ot the good old usages and casts of perfluanance 
-—and the anger of second-rate composers, whose compositions Co- 
rilla had always preferred, and who now saw themselves threatened 
with neglect in her person. The orchestra, dreading to set to work on 
scores which had been long laid aside, and which consequently would 
require study, all those retainers of the theatre, who in every thorough 
reform always foresaw an entire change of the performers, even the 
veiy scene-shifters, the tirewoman, and the hair-dressers — all were in 
movement for or against the debutante at San Samuel. In point of 
tact the debut was much more in everybody’s thoughts than the new 
administration or the acts of the Doge, Pietro. Gi'inialdi, who had just 
Chen peaceably succeeded his predecessor, Luigi Pisani. 


CONSUELO. 


77 

Consuelo was exceedingly distressed at these delays and the petty 
quarrels connected with her new career; she would have wished to 
come out at once, without any other preparation than what concerned 
herself and the study of the new piece. She understood nothing of 
those endless intrigues which seemed to her more dangerous than 
useful, and which she felt she could very well dispense with. But the 
count, who saw' more clearly into the secrets of his profession, and 
who wished to be envied his imaginary happiness, spared nothing to 
secure partisans, and made her come every day to his palace to be 
presented to all the aristocracy of Venice. Consuelo’s modesty and 
reluctance ill supported his designs; but he induced her to sing, and 
the victory was at once decisive — brilliant — incontestible. 

Anzoleto was far from sharing the repugnance of his betrothed for 
these secondary means. His success was by no means so certain as 
hers. In the first place, the count was not so ardent in his favor, and 
the tenor whom he was to succeed was a man of talent, who would 
not be easily forgotten. It is true he also sang nightly at the count’s 
palace, and Consuelo in their duets brought him out adtnirably; so 
that, urged and sustained by the magic of a genius superior to his 
own, he often attained great heights. He was on these occasions both 
encouraged and applauded; but wdien the first surprise excited by 
his fine voice was over, more especially when Consuelo had revealed 
herself, his deficiency was apparent, and frightened even himself. 
This was the time to work with renewed vigor; but in vain Consuelo 
exhorted him, and appointed him to meet her each morning at the 
Corte Minelli— where she persisted in remaining, spite of the remon- 
strances of the count, who wished to establish her more suitably. 
Anzoleto had so much to do — so many visits, engagements, and in- 
trigues on hand — such distracting anxieties to occupy his mind — that 
neither time nor courage was left for study. 

In the midst of these perplexities, seeing that the greatest opposi- 
tion w^ould be given by Corilla, and also that the count no longer 
gave himself any trouble about her, Anzoleto resolved to visit her 
himself in order to deprecate her hostility. As may easily be con- 
ceived, she had pretended to take the matter very lightly, and treated 
the neglect and contempt of Zustiniani wdth philosophical unconcern. 
She mentioned and boasted every where that she had received brilliant 
offers from the Italian opera at Paris, and calculating on the^ reverse 
which she thought awaited her arrival, laughed outright at the illusions 
of the count, and his party. Anzoleto thought that with prudence 
and by employing a little deceit, he might disarm this formidable ene- 
my ; and having perfumed and adorned himself, he waited on her at 
one in the afternoon — an hour when the siesta renders visits unusual 
and the palaces silent. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Anzoleto found Corilla alone in a charming boudoir, reclining on 
a couch in a becoming undress; but the alterations in her features by 
daylight led him to suspect that her security with regard to Consuelo 
was not so great as her faithful partisans asserted. Nevertheless, she 


C O N S U E L O. 


78 

received him with an easy air, and tapping him playfully on the cheek, 
while she made a sign to her servant to withdraw, exclaimed — “ Ah, 
wicked one, is it you? — are you come with your tales, or would you 
make me believe you are no dealer in flourishes, nor the most intri- 
guing of all the postulants for fame ? You were somewhat conceited, 
my handsome friend, if you supposed that I should be disheartened 
by your sudden flight after so many tender declarations; and still 
more conceited was it to suppose that yott were wanted, for in four- 
and-twenty hours I had forgotten that such a person existed.” 

“ Four-and-twenty hours! — that is a long time,” replied Anzoleto, 
kissing the plump and rounded arm of Gorilla. “ Ah, if 1 believed 
that, i should be proud indeed ; but I know that if I was so far de- 
ceived as to believe you when you said — ” 

“ What I said, I advise you to forget also. Had you called, you 
would have found my door shut agaiust you. What assurance to 
come to-day ! ” 

“ Is it not good taste to leave those who are in favor, and to lay 
one’s heart and devotion at the feet of her who — ” 

“Well, finish — to her who is in disgrace. It is most generous and 
humane on your part, most illustrious friend ! ” And Gorilla fell back 
upon the satin pillow with a burst of shrill and forced laughter. 

Although the disgraced prima donna was no longer in her early 
freshness — although the mid-day sun was not much in her favor, and 
although vexation had somewhat taken from the effect of her full- 
formed features — Anzoleto, who had never been on terms of intimacy 
with a woman so brilliant and so renowned, felt himself moved in re- 
gions of the soul to which Gonsuelo had never descended, and whence 
he had voluntarily banished her pure image. He therefore palliated 
the raillery of Gorilla by a profession of love which he had only inten- 
ded to feign, but which he now actually began to experience. I say 
love, for want of a better word, for it were to profane the name to 
apply it to the attraction awakened by such women as Gorilla. 
When she saw the young tenor really moved, she grew milder, and 
addressed him after a more amiable fashion. 

“ I confess,” said she, “ you selected me for a whole evening, hut I 
did not altogether esteem you. I know you are ambitious, and conse- 
quently false, and ready for every treason, t daje not trust to you. 
You pretended to be jealous on a certain night' in my gondola, and 
took upon you the airs of a despot. That might have disenchanted 
me with the inspired gallantries of our patricians, but you deceived 
me, ungrateful one ! you were engaged to another, and are going to 
marry — whom?— oh, I know very well — my rival, my enemy, the 
debutante, the new protegee of Zustiniani. Shame upon us two — 
upon us three — upon us all 1 ” added she, growing animated in spite 
of herself, and withdrawing her hand from Anzoleto. 

“ Gruel creature ! ” he exclaimed, trying to regain her fair fingers, 
“ you ought to understand what passed in my heart when I first saw 
you, and not busy yourself with what occupied me before that terri- 
ble moment. As to what happened since, can you not guess it, and 
is there any necessity to recur to the subject? ” 

“T am not to be put off with half words and reservations; do you 
love the zingarella, and are you about to marry her?” 

“ And if 1 loved her, how does it happen I did not marry her be- 
fore ? ” 

“ Perhaps the count would have opposed it. Every one knows what 


CONSUELO. 79 

he wants now. They even say that he has ground for impatience, 
and the little one still more so.” 

The color mounted to Anzoleto’s face when he heard language of 
this sort applied to the being whom he venerated above all others. 

“ Ah, you are angry at my supposition,” said Gorilla; “ it is well — 
that is what I wished to find out. You love her. When will the 
marriage take place?” 

“ For the love of Heaven, madam, let us speak of nobody except 
ourselves.” 

“ Agreed,” replied Gorilla. “ So, my former lover and your future 
spouse ” 

Anzoleto was enraged; he rose to go away; but what was he to 
do? Should he enrage still nmre the woman whom he had come to 
pacify ? He remained undecided, dreadfully humiliated, and unhappy 
at the part he had imposed upon himself. 

Gorilla eagerly desired to win his affections, not because she loved 
him, but because she wished to be revenged on Gonsuelo, whom she 
had abused without being certain that her insinuations were well 
founded. 

“ You see,” said slie, arresting him on the threshold with a pene- 
trating look, “ that I have reason to doubt you; for at this moment 
you are deceiving some one — either her or myself.” 

“ Neither one nor the other,” replied he, endeavoring to justify 
himself in his own eyes. “ 1 am not her lover, and I never was so. 
I am not in love with her, for 1 am not jealous of the count.” 

“ Oh! indeed? You are jealous, even to the point of denying it, 
and you come here- to cure yourself or to distract your attention from 
a subject so unpleasant. Many thanks ! ” 

“I am not jealous, I repeat; and to prove that it is not mortifica- 
tion which makes me speak, I tell you that the count is no more her 
lover than I am ; that she is virtuous, child as she is, and that the 
only one guilty towards you is Gount Zustiniani.” 

“ So, so ; then I may hiss the zimjarella without afflicting you. You 
shall be in my box on the night of her debut, and you shall hiss her. 
Your obedience shall be the price of my favor — take me at my word, 
or I draw back.” 

“ Alas ! madam, you wish to prevent me appearing myself, for you 
know I am to do so at the same time as Gonsuelo. If you hiss her, I 
shall fall a victim to your wrath, because I shall sing with her. And 
what have I done, wretch that I am, to displease you? Alas! I liad 
a delicious but fatal dream. I thought for a whole evening that you 
took an interest in me, and that I should grow great under your pro- 
tection. Now I am the object of your hatred and anger — 1, who 
have so loved and respected you as to fly you! Very well, madam; 
satiate your enmity. Overthrow me — ruin me — close my career. So 
that you can here tell me, in secret, that I am not hateful to you, shall 
I accept the public marks of your anger.” 

“Serpent!” exclaimed Gorilla, “where have you imbibed the 
poison which your tongue and your eyes distil? — Much would I give 
to know, to comprehend you, for you are the most amiable of lovers 
and the most dangerous of enemies.” 

“ I your enemy! how could I be so, even were I not subdued by 
your charms ? Have you enemies then, divine Gorilla ? Gan you have 
them in Venice, wliere you are known, and where you rule over no 
divided empire? A lover quarrel throws the count into despair; he 


80 


CONSUELO, 


would remove you, since thereby he would cease to suffer. He meets 
a little creature in his path who appears to display resources, and who 
only asks to be heard. Is this a crime on the part of a poor child 
who only hears your name with terror, and who never utters it her- 
self without respect? And you ascribe to this little one insolent pre- 
tensions which she does not entertain. - The efforts of the count to 
recommend her to his friends, the kindness of these friends, who ex- 
aggerate her deserts, the bitterness of yours, who spread calumnies 
which serve but to annoy and vex you, whilst they should but calm 
your soul in picturing to you your glory unassailable, and your rival 
all trembling — these are the prejudices which I discover in you, and 
at which I am so confounded that I hardly know how to assail them.” 

You know but too well, with that flattering tongue of yours,” 
said Gorilla, looking at him with tenderness mixed with distrust; “ I 
hear the honied words which reason bids me disclaim. I wager that 
this Consuelo is divinely beautiful, whatever may have been said to 
the contrary, and that she has merits, though opposed to mine, since 
the severe Porpora has proclaimed them.” 

“You know Porpora; you know all his crotchety ideas. An ene- 
my of all originality in others, and of every innovation in the art of 
song, he declares a little pupil, who listens to his dotage, submissive 
to his pedantry, and who runs over the scale decently, to be preferable 
to all the wonders which the public adores. How long have you tor- 
mented yourself about this crazy old fool? ” 

“ Has she no talent, then ? ” 

“ She has a good voice, and sings church music fairly, but she can 
know nothing about the stage; and as to the power' of displaying 
what talent she has, she is so overcome with alarm, that there is 
much reason to fear that she will lose what little Heaven has given 
her.” 

“ Afraid !— what, she ? I have heard say, on the other hand, that 
she is endowed with a fair stock of impudence? ” 

“Ah, the poor girl! Alas! some one must have a great spite at 
her. You shall hear her, divine Cforilla, and you will be touched with 
sympathising pity, and will applaud her rather than have her hissed, 
as you said for her just now.” 

“ Either you are cheating me, or my friends have cheated strangely 
concerning her.” • 

“ They have cheated themselves. In their absurd and useless ardor 
for you they have got frightened at seeing a rival raised up to you. 
Frightened at a mere child! — and frightened for you! Ah, how little 
can they know you! Oh, were I your permitted friend, I should 
know better what you are, than to think that I was doing you aught 
but injury in holding up any rivalry as a fear to you, were it that ol‘ a 
Faustina or a Molteni.” 

“ Don’t imagine that I have been frightened. I am neither envious 
nor ill-natured, and I should feel no regret at the success of any one 
who had never injured my own. But when I have cause to believe 
that people are injuring and braving me, then indeed—” 

“Will you let me bring little Consuelo to your feet? ^Had she 
dared it, she would have come to ask your aid and advice. But she 
IS a mere shy child. And you, too, have been calumniated to her. 
fehe has been told that you are cruel, revengeful and bent on causing 
her fall.” ® 

“ She has been told so? Ah, then I understand what brought you 
hither.” ® ^ 


CONSUELO, 


81 


“ You understand nothing of the sort, madam. For I did not be- 
lieve at all, and never shall believe it. You have not an idea what 
brought me.” 

And as he spoke, Anzoleto turned his sparkling eyes upon Gorilla, 
and bent his knee before her w'ith the deepest show of reverence and 
love. 

Gorilla was destitute neither of acuteness nor of ill-nature; but as 
happens to women excessively taken with themselves, vanity sealed 
her eyes and precipitated her into the clumsy trap. 

She thought she had nothing to apprehend as regarded Anzoleto’s 
sentiments for the debutante. When he justified himself, and swore 
by all the gods that lie had never loved this young girl, save as a 
brother should love, he told the truth, and there was so much confi- 
dence in his manner that Gorilla’s jealousy w'as overcome. At length 
the great day approached, and the cabal was annihilated. Gorilla, on 
her part, thenceforth went on in a different direction, fully persuaded 
that the timid and inexperienced Gonsuelo would not succeed, and 
that Anzoleto w'ould ow^e her an infinite obligation for having con- 
tributed nothing to her downfall. Besides, he had the address to em- 
broil her with her firmest champions, pretending to be jealous, and 
obliging her to dismiss them rather rudely. 

Whilst he thus labored in secret to blast the hopes of a woman 
whom he pretended to love, the cunning Venetian played another 
game with the count and Gonsuelo. He boasted to them of having, 
disarmed this most formidable enemy by dexterous management, in- 
terested visits, and bold falsehoods. The count, frivolous and some- 
W’hat of a gossip, was extremely amused by the stories of his protege. 
His self-love was flattered at the regret which Gorilla was said to ex- 
pei ience on account of their quarrel, and he urged on this young man, 
with the levity which one witnesses in affairs of love and gallantry, 
to the commission of cow^ardly perfidy. Gonsuelo was astonished and 
distressed. “ You would do better,” said she, “ to exercise your voice 
and study your part. You think you have done much in propitiating 
the enemy, but a single false note, a movement badly expressed, would 
do more against you with the impartial public than the silence of the 
envious. It is of this public that you should think, and I see with 
pain that you are thinking nothing about it.” 

“ Be calm, little Gonsuelo,” said he ; “ your error is to believe a pub- 
lic at once impartial and enlightened. Those best acquainted with 
the matter are hardly ever in earnest, and those who are in earnest 
know so little about it, that it only requires boldness to dazzle and 
lead them away.” 


GHAPTER XVII. 

In the midst of the anxieties awakened by the desire of success, 
and by the ardor of Gorilla, the jealousy of Anzoleto with regard to 
the count slumbered. Plappily, Gonsuelo did not need a more watch- 
ful or more moral protector. Secure in innocence she avoided the 
advances of Zustiniani, and kept him at a distance precisely by car- 
ing nothing about it. At the end of a fortnight this Venetian liber- 
tine acknowledged that she had none of those worldly passions which 
5 


82 


CONSUELO, 


led to corruption, though he spared no pains to make them spring up. 
But even in this respect he had advanced no further than the first 
day, and he feared to ruin his hopes by pressing tliem too openly. 
Had Anzoleto annoyed him by keeping watch, anger might have 
caused him to precipitate matters ; but Anzoleto left him at perfect 
liberty. Consuelo distrusted nothing, and he only tried to make him- 
self agreeable, hoping in time to become necessary to her. There 
was no sort of delicate attentions, or refined gallantries, that he 
omitted. Consuelo placed them all to the account of the liberal and 
elegant manners of his class, united with a love for art and a natural 
goodness of disposition. She displayed towards him an unfeigned 
regard, a sacred gratitude, while he, happy and yet dissatisfied with 
this pure-hearted unreserve, began to grow uneasy at the sentiment 
which he inspired until such period as he might wish to break the 
ice. 

While he gave himself up with fear, and yet not without satisfac- 
tion, to this new feeling — consoling himself a little for his want of 
success by the opinion which all Venice entertained of his triumph 
— Gorilla experienced the same transformation in herself. She loved 
with ardor, if not with devotion; and her irritable and imperious 
soul bent beneath the yoke of her young Adonis. It was truly the 
queen of beauty in love with the beautiful hunter, and for the first 
time humble and timid before the mortal of her choice. She affected 
with a sort of delight, virtues which she did not possess. So true it 
is that the extinction of self-idolatry in favor of another, tends to 
raise and ennoble, were it but for an instant, hearts the least suscep- 
tible of pure emotions. 

The emotion which she experienced reacted on her talents, and it 
was remarked at the theatre that she performed pathetic parts more 
naturally and with greater sensibility. But as her character and the 
essence of her nature were thus as it seemed inverted ; as it required 
a sort of internal convulsion to effect this change, her bodily strength 
gave way in the combat, and each day they observed— some with ma- 
licious joy, others with serious alarm — the failure of her powers. Her 
brilliant execution was impeded by shortness of breath and false in- 
tonations. The annoyance and terror which she experienced, weak- 
ened her still further, and at the representation which took place pre- 
vious to the debut of Consuelo, she sang so false, and failed in so 
many brilliant passages, that her friends applauded faintly, and were 
soon reduced to silence and consternation by the murmurs of her op- 
ponents. 

At length the great day arrived : the house was filled to suffocation. 
Gorilla, attired in black, pale, agitated, more dead than alive, divided 
between the fear of seeing her lover condemned and her rival tri 
umph, was seated in the recess of her little box in the theatre. Crowds 
of the aristocracy and beauty ofVenice, tier above tier, made a brilliant 
display. The fops were crowded behind the scenes, and even in the front 
of the stage. The lady of the Doge took her place along with the great 
dignitaries of the republic. Porpora directed the orchestra in person ; 
and Count Zustiniani waited at the door of Consuelo’s apartment till 
she had concluded her toilet, while Anzoleto, dressed as an antique 
M^arrior, with all the absurd and lavish ornaments of the age, retired 
behind the scenes to swallow a draught of Cyprus wine, in order to 
restore his courage. 

The opera was neither of the classic period nor. yet the work of au 


CONSUELO. 


83 

innovator. It was the unknown production of a stranger. To escape 
the cabals which his own name or that of any other celebrated person 
would have caused, Porpora, above all things anxious for the success 
of his pupil, had brought forward Ipermnestra, the lyrical production 
of a young German, who had enemies neither in Italy nor elsewhere, 
and who was styled simply Christopher Gluck. 

When Anzoleto appeared on the stage a murmur of admiration 
burst forth. The tenor to whom he succeeded — an admirable singer, 
who had had the imprudence to continue on the boards till his voice 
became thin and age had changed his looks — was little regretted by 
an ungrateful public; and the fair sex, who listen oftener with their 
eyes than with their ears, were delighted to find, in the place of a fat, 
elderly man, a fine youth of twenty-four, fresh as a rose, fair as Phoe- 
bus, and formed as if Phidias himself had been the artist — a true son 
of the lagunes. Bianco crespo, e grassotto. 

He was too much agitated to sing his first air well, but his magnifi- 
cent voice, his graceful attitudes, and some happy turns, sufficed to 
propitiate the audience and satisfy the ladies. The debutant had 
great resources; he was applauded threefold, and twice brought back 
before the scenes, according to the custom of Italy, and of Venice in 
particular. 

Success gave him courage, and, when he reappeared with Iperm- 
nestra, he was no longer afraid. But all the effect of this scene 
was for Consuelo. They only saw, only listened to her. They said 
to each other, “ Look at her — yes, it is she ! ’ ’ “ Who ? — the Span- 
iard ? ” “ Yes — the debutante, Vamante del ZustinianV’ 

Consuelo entered, self-possessed and serious. Casting her eyes 
around, she received the plaudits of the spectators with a propriety 
of manner equally devoid of humility and coquetry, and sang a re- 
citative with so firm a voice, with accents so lofty, and a self-possession 
so victorious, that cries of admiration from the very first resounded 
from every part of the theatre. “ Ah ! the perfidious creature has de- 
ceived me,” exclaimed Corilla, darting a terrible look towards Anzo- 
leto, who could not resist raising his eyes to hers with an ill-disguised 
smile. She threw herself back upon her seat, and burst into tears. 

Consuelo proceeded a little further; while old Lotti was heard mut- 
tering with his cracked voice from his corner, Amici miei, questo e 
un portento I ” 

She sang a bravura, and was ten times interrupted. They shouted 
“Encore ! ” they recalled her to the stage seven times, amid thunders 
of applause. At length the furor of Venetian dilettantism displayed 
itself in all its ridiculous and absurd excesses. “ Why do they cry out 
thus?” said Consuelo, as she retired behind the scenes only to be 
brought back immediately by the vociferous applause of the pit. 
“ One would think that they wished to stone me.” 

From that moment they paid but a secondary attention to Anzole- 
to. They received him very well indeed, because they were in a 
happy vein; but the indulgence with which they passed over the pas- 
sages in which he failed, without immediately applauding those in 
wliich he succeeded, showed him very plainly, that however he might 
please the ladies, the noisy majority «f males held him cheaply, and 
reserved their tempestuous applause for the prima donna. Not one 
among all those who had come with hostile intentions, ventured a 
murmur; and in truth there were not three among them who could 
withstand the irresisti' fie inclination to applaud the wonder of the 
day. 


84 


CONSUELO. 


The piece had the greatest success, although it was not listened to 
and nobody was occupied with the music in itself. It was quite in 
the Italian style — graceful, touching, and gave no indication of tho 
author of Alcestes and Orpheus. There were not many striking 
beauties to astonish the audience. After the first act, the German 
maestro was called for, with Anzoleto, the debutante, and Clorinda, 
who, thanks to the protection of Consuelo, had sung through the sec- 
ond part with a flat voice, and an inferior tone, but whose beautiful 
arms propitiated the spectators — Rosalba, whom she had replaced, 
being very lean. 

In the last act, Anzoleto, who secretly watched Gorilla, and per- 
ceived her increasing agitation, thought it prudent to seek her 
in her box, in order to avert any explosion. So soon as she per- 
ceived him she threw herself upon him like a tigress, bestowed sev- 
eral vigorous cuffs, the least of which was so smart as to draw blood, 
leaving a mark that red and white could not immediately cover. The 
angry tenor settled matters by a thrust on the breast, which threw 
the singer gasping-into the arms of her sister Rosalba. “ Wretch! — 
traitor I ” she murmured in a choking voice, “ your Consuelo and you 
shall perish by my hand!” 

“ If you make a step, a movement, a single gesture, I will stab you 
in the face of Venice,” replied Anzoleto, pale and with clenched 
teeth, while his faithful knife, which he knew how to use with all the 
dexterity of a man of the lagunes, gleamed before her eyes. 

“ He would do as he says,” murmured the terrified Rosalba; “be 
silent — let us leave this; we are here in danger of our lives.” 

Although this tragi-comic scene had taken, place after the manner 
of the Venetians, in a mysterious and rapid sotto voce, on seeing the 
debutante pass quickly behind the scenes to regain his box, his cheek 
hidden in liis hand, they suspected some petty squabble. The hair- 
dresser, who was called to adjust the curls of the Grecian prince, and 
to plaster up his wound, related to the whole band of choristers that 
an amorous cat had sunk her claw into the face of the hero. The 
aforesaid barber was accustomed to this kind of wounds, and was no 
new confidant of such adventures. The anecdote made the round of 
the stage, penetrated no one knew how, into the body of the house, 
found its way into the orchestra, the boxes, and wdth some additions, 
descended to the pit. They were not yet aw-are of the position of 
Anzoleto with regard to Gorilla ; but some had noticed his apparent 
devotion to Glorinda, and the general report was, that the seconda 
donna, jealous of the prima donna, had just blackened the eye and 
broken three teeth of the handsomest of tenors. 

This w'as sad news for some, but an exquisite bit of scandal for the 
majority. They wondered if the representation w^ould be put off, or 
whether the old tenor Stefanini, should have to appear, roll in hand, 
to finish the part. The curtain rose, and everything w'as forgotten on 
seeing Gonsuelo appear, calm and sublime as at the beginidng. Al- 
though her part was not extremely tragical, she made” it so by the 
power of her acting and the expression of her voice. She called 
forth tears, and when the tenor reappeared, the slight scratch only 
excited a smile ; but this absurd incident prevented his success from 
being so brilliant, and all the glory of the evening was reserved for 
Gonsuelo, who was applauded to the last with frenzy. 

After the play, they w'ent to sup at the Palace Znstiniani, and An- 
zoleto forgot Gorilla, whom he had shut up in her box, and who was 


CONSUELO, 


85 


forced to burst it open in order to leave it. In the tumult which al- 
ways follows so successful a representation, her retreat was not no- 
ticed ; but the next day, tliis broken door coincided so well with the 
torn face of Anzoleto, that the love affair, hitherto so carefully con- 
cealed, was made known. 

Hardly was he seated at the sumptuous banquet which the count 
gave in honor of Consuelo, and at which the Venetian dilettanti 
handed to the triumphant actress sonnets and mandrigals composed 
the evening before, when a valet slipped under his plate a little billet 
from Gorilla, which he read aside, and which was to the following 
effect : — 

“ If you do not come to me this instant, I shall go to seek you 
openly, were you even at the end of the world — were you even at the 
feet of your Consuelo, thrice accursed ! ” 

Anzoleto pretended to be seized with a fit of coughing, and retired 
to write an answer with a pencil on a piece of ruled paper which he 
had torn in the antechamber of the count from a music-book: — 

“ Come if you will. My knife is ready, and with it my scorn and 
hatred.” 

The despot was well aware that "with such a creature fear was the 
only restraint; that threats were the only expedient at the moment; 
but in spite of himself he was gloomy and absent during the repast, 
and as soon as it was over he hurried off to go to Gorilla. 

He found the unhappy girl in a truly pitiable condition. Convul- 
sions were followed by torrents of tears. She was seated at the win- 
dow, her hair dishevelled, her eyes swollen with weeping, and her 
dress disordered. She sent away her sister and maid, and in spite of 
herself, a ray of joy overspread her features, at finding herself with 
him whom she had feared she might never see again. But Anzoleto 
knew her too well to seek to comfort her. He knew that at the first 
appearance of pity or penitence he would see her fury revive, and 
seize upon revenge. He resolved to keep up the appearance of in- 
flexible harshness; and although he was moved with her despair, he 
overwhelmed her with cruel reproaches-, declaring that he was only 
come to bid her an eternal farewell. He suffered her to throw herself 
at his feet, to cling to his knees even to the door, and to implore his 
pardon in the anguish of grief. When he had thus subdued and 
humbled her, he pretended to be somewhat moved, and promising to 
return in the morning, he left her. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

When Anzoleto awoke the following morning, he experienced a 
reverse of the jealousy with which Count Zustiniani had inspired 
him. A thousand opposing sentiments divided his soul. First, that 
other jealousy which the genius and success of Consuelo had awak- 
ened in his bosom. This sank the deeper in his breast in proportion 
as he measured the triumph of his betrothed with what in his 
blighted ambition he was pleased to call his downfall. Again, 


CONSUELO. 


86 

the mortfication of being supplanted in reality, as he was already 
thought, to be, with her, now so triumphant and powerful, and of 
whom the preceding evening he was so pleased to believe himself the 
only lover. These two feelings possessed him by turns, and he knew 
not to which to give himself up, in order to extinguish the other. 
He had to choose between two things, either to remove Consuelo 
from the count and from Venice, and along with her to seek his for- 
tune elsewhere, or to abandon her to his rival, and take his chance 
alone in some distant country with no drawback to his success. In 
this poignant uncertainty, in place of endeavoring to recover his 
calmness with his true friend, he returned to Gorilla and plunged 
back into the storm. She added fuel to the flame, by showing him, 
even in stronger colors than he had imagined the preceding night, all 
the disadvantages of his position. “ No person^’ said she, “ is a 
prophet in his own country. This is a bad place for one who has 
been seen running about in rags, and where every one may say — (and 
God knows the nobles are sufficiently given to boast of the protec- 
tion, even when it is only imaginary, which they accord to artists) — 
‘ I was his protector; I saw his hidden talent; it was I who recom- 
mended and gave him a preference.’ You have lived too much in pub- 
lic here, my poor Anzoleto. Your charming features struck those 
who knew not what was ill you. You astonished people who have 
seen you in their gondolas singing the stanzas of Tasso, or doing their 
errands to gain the means of support. The plain Consuelo, leading a 
retired life, appears here as a strange wonder. Besides she is a Span- 
iard, and uses not the Venetian accent; and her agreeable, though 
somewhat singular pronunciation, would please them, even were it 
detestable. It is something of which their ears are not tired. Your 
good looks have contributed mainly to the slight success you obtained 
in the first act; but now people are accustomed to you.” 

“ Do not forget to mention that the handsome scratch you gave me 
beneath the eye, and for which I ought never to pardon you, will go 
far to lessen the last-mentioned trifling advantage.” 

“ On the contrary, it is a decided advantage in the eyes of women, 
but frivolous in those of men. You will reign in the saloons with 
one party, without the other you would fall at the theatre. But how 
can you expect to occupy their attention, when it is a woman who 
disputes it with you — a woman who not only enthrals the serious 
dilettanti, but who intoxicates by her grace and the magic of her sex, 
all who are not connoisseurs in music. To struggle with me, how 
much talent did Stefanini, Savario — all indeed who have appeared 
with me on the stage, require ! ” 

“ In that case, dear Gorilla, I should run as much risk in appearing 
with you as with Gonsuelo. If I were inclined to follow you to 
France, you have given me fair warning.” 

These words which escaped from Anzoleto were as a ray of light to 
Gorilla. She saw that she had hit the mark more nearly than she 
had supposed, for the thought of leaving Venice had already dawned 
in the mind of her lover. The instant she conceived the idea of bear- 
ing him away with her, she spared no pains to make him relish the 
project. She humbled herself as much as she could, and even had 
the modesty to place herself below her rival. She admitted that she 
was not a great singer, nor yet sufficiently beautiful to^ attract the 
public ; and as all this was even truer than she cared to think, and as 
Anzoleto was very well aware of it, having never been deceived as to 


C O N S U E I 0 


87 

the immense superiority of Consuelo, she had little trouble in per- 
suading him. Their partnership and flight were almost determined 
upon at this interview, and Anzoleto thought seriously of it, although 
he always kept a loop-hole for escape if necessary. 

Coriha, seeing his uncertainty, urged him to continue to appear, in 
hopes of better success ; but quite sure that these unlucky trials would 
disgust him altogether with Venice and with Consuelo. 

On leaving his fair adviser, he went to seek his only real friend, 
Consuelo. He felt an unconquerable desire to see her again. It was 
the first time he had begun and ended a day without receiving her 
chaste kiss upon his brow; but as, after what had passed with Gorilla, 
he would have blushed for his own instability, he persuaded himself 
that he only went to receive assurance of her uniaithfulness, and to 
undeceive himself as to his love for her. “ Doubtless,” said he, “ the 
count has taken advantage of my absence to urge his suit, and who 
can tell how far he has been successful ? ” This idea caused a cold 
perspiration to stand upon his forehead ; and the thought of Consu- 
elo’s perfidy so affected him that he hastened his steps, thinking to 
find her bathed in tears. Then an inward voice, which drowned 
every other, told him that he wronged a being so pure and noble, and 
he slackened his pace, reflecting on his own odious conduct, his sel- 
fish ambition, and the deceit and treachery with which he had stored 
liis life and conscience, and which must inevitably bear their bitter 
fruit. 

He found Consuelo in her black dress, seated beside her table, pure, 
serene, and tranquil, as he had ever beheld her. She came forward 
to meet him with the same affection as ever, and questioned him with 
anxiety, but without distrust or reproach, as to the employment of 
his time during his absence. 

“ I have been suffering,” said he, with the very deep despondency 
which his inward humiliation had occasioned. “ I hurt my head 
against a decoration, and although I told you it was nothing, it so 
confused me that I was obliged to leave the Palazzo Zustiniani last 
night, lest I should faint and have to keep my bed all the morning.” 

“Oh, Heavens!” said Consuelo, kissing the wound inflicted by her 
rival ; “ you have suffered, and still suffer.” 

“No, the rest has done me good: do not think of it; but tell me 
how you managed to get home all alone last night.” 

“ Alone? Oh, no; the count brought me in his gondola.” 

“ Ah, I was sure of it,” cried Anzoleto, in a constrained voice. 
“ And of course he said a great many flattering things to you in this 
interview.” 

“ What could he say that he has not already said a hundred times ? 
He would spoil me and make me vain, were I not on my guard 
against him. Besides, we were not alone; my good master accompa- 
nied me — ah ! my excellent friend and master.” 

“What master? — what excellent friend?” said Anzoleto, once 
more reassured, and already absent and thoughtful. 

“ Why, Porpora, to be sure. What are you thinking of? ” 

“ I am thinking, dear Consuelo, of your triumph yesterday evening: 
are you not thinking of it too? ” 

“ Less than of yours, I assure you.” 

“ Mine ! ah, do not jest, dear friend ; mine was so meagre that it 
rather resembled a downfall.” 

Consuelo grew pale with surprise. Notwithstanding her remarka- 


88 


CONSUELO. 


ble self-possession, she had not the necessary coolness to appreciate 
the different degrees of applause bestowed on herself and her lover. 
There is in this sort of ovation an intoxication wliich the wisest 
artists cannot shun, and which deceives some so widely as to induce 
them to look upon the support of a cabal as a public triumph. But 
instead of exaggerating the favor of her audience, Consuelo, terrified 
by so frightful a noise, had hardly understood it, and could not distin- 
guish the preference awarded to her over Anzoleto. She artlessly 
chid him for his unreasonable expectations; and seeing that she 
could not persuade him, nor conquer his sadness, she gently re- 
proached him with being too desirous of glory, and with attaching too 
much value to the favor of the world. “ I have always told you,” said 
she, “ that you prefer the results of art to art itself. When we do our 
best — when we feel that we have done well — it seems to me that a 
little more or less of approbation can neither increase nor lessen our 
internal content. Hold in mind what Porpora said to me, when I 
first sang at the Palazzo Zustiniani: ‘Whoever feels that he is truly 
pervaded with the love of his art has no room for fear.’ ” 

“ Oh, your Porpora and you ! ” cried Anzoleto, spitefully, “ it is well 
for you to feed yourselves on those fine maxims. Nothing can be 
easier than to philosophise on the evils of life, when we are acquain- 
ted only with its advantages. Porpora, though poor, and his authori- 
ty disputed, has won himself a great name. He has gathered laurels 
enough to grow gray in peace beneath their shade. You who know 
yourself invincible, are of course fearless. You spring at one bound 
to the highest step of the ladder, and reproach those who are lame 
that they are dizzy. It is scarce charitable, Consuelo, and is horribly 
unjust. And, again, your argument applies not to me. You say that 
the applause of the public is not to be heeded as long as we have our 
own. But suppose I have not the inward conscience of well-doing? 
And can you not perceive that I am wofully out of sorts with ray- 
self? could you not see that I was abominable ? could you not hear 
that I sang pitifully ? ” 

“ I could not — for it was not so. You were nor greater nor less 
than yourself. Your own emotions deprived you of almost all your 
resources. That soon passed, and the music which you knew you 
sang well.” 

“ And the music which I did not know? ” said Anzoleto, fixing his 
great black eyes, rendered cavernous by weariness and vexation, upon 
her, “ what of that? ” 

She heaved a sigh, and held her peace awhile. Then, embracing 
him as she spoke, — “ The music which you do not know you must 
learn. Had you chosen to study seriously during the rehearsals. 
Did I not tell you so? But the time for reproaches has gone by. 
Come now, let us take but two hours a day, and you will see how 
quickly we will surmount the obstacles.” 

“ Can it be done in a day ? ” 

“ It cannot be done under several months.” 

‘‘ And I have got to play to-morrow ! Am I to go on appearing 
before an audience which attends to my defects more tha i it does to 
my good qualities? ” 

“ It will soon appreciate your endeavors. 

** Who can say that? It may take a distaste for me.” 

“ It has proved the contrary.” 

“ Ah ! so you think it has treated me with indulgence? ” 


CONSUELO. 89 

“ If you ask me— it has, my dear; where you failed it was kind — 
where you made hits it did you justice.” 

“ But in the meantime I shall get but a miserable engagement.” 

“ The count is liberal to magnificence in all his dealings, and counts 
no expense. Moreover, does lie not offer me more than enough to 
maintain us both in opulence?” 

“ That is to say that I am to live on your success.” 

“ Why not? I lived long enough on your favor.” 

“ It is not merely money of which I am thinking. Let him engage 
me as low as’ he please, I care not ; but he will engage me for second 
or third parts.” 

“He cannot lay his hand on any other primo nomo. He has reck- 
oned on you long, and thinks of none other than you. Besides, he is 
all on your side. You said he would oppose our marriage. So far 
from it, he seems to wish it to take place, and often asks when I am 
going to ask him to my wedding.” 

“ Excellent — good, forsooth ! A thousand thanks. Signor Count ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Xothing. Only you were very wrong for riot hindering me from 
making my debut before I had corrected these faults, which, it seems, 
you knew better than I did myself, by better studies. For, I repeat, 
you know all my faults.” 

“Have I ever failed in frankness with you? Have I not often 
warned you of them ? No ; you told me that the public knew noth- 
ing about it, and when I heard of the great success you had met with 
at the count’s, the first time you sung in his palace, I thought 
that ” 

“ That the fashionable world knew no more about it than the vulgar 
world.” 

“ I thought that your brilliant qualities had struck them more for- 
cibly than your weak points, and, as I think, such has been the case 
with both parties.” 

“ In fact she is quite right,” thought Anzioleto to himself. “ If I 
could but defer my debut ; but it would be running the risk of seeing 
another tenor called into my place, who would never make way for 
me. Come,” he added, after walking twice or thrice up and down the 
room, “ what are my faults?” 

“ I have told you them very often — too much boldness, and not 
enough study. An energy factitious and feverish, rather than felt. 
Dramatic effects, the result of will rather than of sentiment. You 
never penetrated to the inner meaning of your part. You picked it 
up piecemeal. You have discovered in it only a succession of more 
or less brilliant hits. You have neither hit on the scale of their con- 
nexion, nor sustained, nor developed them. Eager to display your 
fine voice, and the facility which you possess in certain points, you 
showed as much power in your first as in your last entrance on the 
stage. On the least opportunity you strove for an effect, and all 
your eflects were identical. At the end of your first act you were 
known, and known, too, by heart — but they were unconscious that 
there was nothing more to be known, and something prodigious was 
expected from you at the finale. That something you lacked. Your 
emotion was exhausted, and your voice had no longer the same ful- 
ness. You perceived tliis yourself, and endeavored to force both. 
Your audience perceived this, too, and to your great surprise they 
were cold where you thought yourself the most pathetic. The cause^ 


CONSUELO. 


90 

was this, that when they looked for the actor’s passion they found 
only the actor’s struggle for success.” 

“And how do others get on?” cried An zoleto, stamping his foot 
for rage. “ Do you think I have not heard them all — all who have 
been applauded in Venice these last ten years? Did not old Stefa- 
nini screech when his voice gave out? and was he not still applauded 
to the echo ? ” 

“ It is quite true ; and I never believed that the audience were so 
mistaken. 1 doubt not they bore in mind the time when he had all 
his powers, and felt unwilling to allow' him to feel the defects and 
misfortunes of his old age.” 

“And Gorilla — wdiat have you to say to her — the idol wdiom you 
overthrew? — did not she force her effects, did she not make exertions 
painful, both to the eye and ear? Were her passions, was her ex- 
citement, real when she was vaunted to the skies? ” 

“ It is because I knew all her resources to be fictitious, all her 
efforts atrocious, her acting, no less than her singing, utterly deficient, 
both in taste and dignity, that I came upon the stage so confidently, 
being satisfied, as you were, that the public did not know much about 
it.” 

“ Ah, you are probing my worst wound, my poor Consuelo! ” said 
An zoleto, sighing very deeply ere he spoke. 

“ How so, my well beloved ? ” 

“ How so? — can you ask me?— we were both deceiving ourselves, 
Consuelo. The public knows right well. Its instincts reveal to it all 
which its ignorance covers with a shroud. It is a great baby, which 
must have amusement and excitement. It is satisfied with whatever 
they give it; but once show it anything better, and at once it compares 
and comprehends. Gorilla could enthral it last week, though she 
sang out of tune and w'as short-breathed. You made your appear- 
ance, and Gorilla was ruined; she is blotted out of their memories — 
entombed. If she should appear again she would be hissed off the 
stage. Had I made my debut with her, I sliould have succeeded as 
thoroughly as I did on the night when I sang after her for the first 
time at the Palazzo Zustiniani. But compared with you I was eclips- 
ed. It needs must have been so ; and so it ever will be. The public 
had a taste for pinchbeck. It took false stones for jewels; it was 
dazzled. A diamond of the first water is shown to it, and at a glance 
it sees that it has been grossly cheated. It can be humbugged no 
longer with sham diamonds, and when it meets them does justice on 
them at sight. This, Consuelo.hasbeenmy misfortune: to have made 
my appearance, a mere bit of Venetian bead- work, beside an invalu- 
able pearl from the treasuries of the sea.” 

Consuelo did not then apprehejid all the bitterness and truth which 
lay in these reflections. She set them down to the score of the affec- 
tion of her betrothed, and replied to what she took for mere flatteries 
by smiles and caresses only. 


C O N S U E L O. 


91 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Encouraged by Consuelo’s frankness, and by the faiibless Gorilla’s 
perfidy, to present himself once more in public, Anzoleto began to 
work vigorously, so that at the second representation of Ipermnestra 
he sang much better. But as the success of Consuelo was propor- 
tionably greater, he was still dissatisfied, and began to feel discour- 
aged by this confirmation of his inferiority. Everything from this 
moment wore a sinister aspect. It appeared to him that they did not 
listen to him — that the spectators who were near him were making 
humiliating observations upon his singing — and that benevolent ama- 
teurs, who encouraged him behind the scenes, did so with an air of 
pity. Their praises seemed to have a double meaning, of which he 
applied the less favorable to himself. Gorilla, whom he went to con- 
sult in her box between the acts, pretended to ask him with a fright- 
ened air if he were not ill. 

“ Why ? ” said he, impatiently. 

“ Because your voice is dull, and you seem overcome. Dear Anzo- 
leto, strive to regain your powers, which were paralyzed by fear or 
discouragement.” 

“ Did I not sing my first air well? ” 

“ Not half so well as on the first occasion. My heart sank so that I 
found myself on the point of fainting.” 

“ But the audience applauded me, nevertheless.” 

“ Alas ! what does it signify ? I was wrong to dispel your illusion. 
Continue then ; but endeavor to clear your voice.” 

“ Consuelo,” thought he, “ meant to give me good advice. She acts 
from instinct, and succeeds. But where could I gain the experience 
which would enable me to restrain the unruly public? In following 
her counsel I lose my own natural advantages; and they reckon noth- 
ing on the improvement of my style. Come, let me return to my 
early confidence. At my first appearance at the count’s, I saw that I 
could dazzle those whom I failed to persuade. Did not old Porpora 
tell me that I had the blemishes of genius. Come, then, let me bend 
this public to my dictation, and make it bow to the yoke.” 

He exerted himself to the utmost, achieved wonders in the second 
act, and was listened to with surprise. Some clapped their hands, 
others imposed silence, while the majority inquired whether it were 
sublime or detestable. 

A little more boldness, and Anzoleto might perhaps have won the 
day; but this reverse affected him so much that he became confused, 
and broke down shamefully in the remainder of his part. 

At the third representation he had resumed his confidence, and re- 
solved to go on in his own way. Not heeding the advice of Consuelo, 
lie hazarded the wildest caprices, the most daring absurdities. Cries 
of oh, shame ! ” mingled with hisses, onc,e or twice interrupted the 
silence with which these desperate attempts were received. The good 
and generous public silenced the hisses and began to applaud ; but it 
was easy to perceive the kindness was for the person, the blame for 
the artik. Anzoleto tore his dress on re-entering his box, and scarce- 
ly had the representation terminated, than he flew to Gorilla, a prey 
to the deepest rage, and resolved to fly with her to the ends of the 
earth. 


92 


C O N S U E L O, 


Three days passed without his seeing Consue.o. She inspired 
neither with hatred nor coldness, but merely with terror; for in the 
depths of a soul pierced with remorse, he still cherished her image, 
and suffered cruelly from not seeing her. He felt the superiority of a 
being who ovcywhelmed him in public with her superiority, but who 
secretly held possession of his confidence and his good will. In his 
agitation he betrayed to Gorilla how truly he was bound to his noble- 
hearted betrothed, and what an empire she held over his mind. Go- 
rilla was mortified, but knew how to conceal it. She pitied him, elic- 
ited a confession, and so soon as she had learned the secret of his 
jealousy, she struck a grand blow, by making Zustiniani aware of 
their mutual affection, thinking that the count would immediately ac- 
quaint Gonsuelo, and thus render a reconciliation impossible. 

Surprised to find another day pass away in the solitude of her gar- 
ret, Gonsuelo grew uneasy; and as still another day of mortal anguish 
and vain expectation drew to its close, she wrapped herself in a thick 
mantle, for the famous singer was no longer sheltered by her obscur- 
ity, and ran to the house occupied for some weeks by Anzoleto, a 
more comfortable abode than what he had before enjoyed, and one of 
numerous houses which the count possessed in the city. She did not 
find him, and learned that he was seldom there. 

This did not enlighten her as to his infidelity. She knew his wan- 
dering and poetic habits, and thought that, not feeling at home in 
these sumptuous abodes, he had returned to his old quarters. She 
was about to continue her search, wdien, on returning to pass the 
door a second time, she found herself face to face with Porpora. 

“ Gonsuelo,” said he in a low voice, “ it is useless to hide from me 
your features. I have just heard your voice, and cannot be mistaken 
in it. What do you here at this liour, my poor child, and whom do 
you seek in this house? ” 

“ I seek my betrothed,” replied Gonsuelo, while she passed her arm 
within that of her old master; “and I do not know why. I should 
blush to confess it to my best friend. I see very well that you disap- 
prove of my attachment, but I could not tell an untruth. I am un- 
happy; I have not seen Anzoleto since the day before yesterday at 
the theatre ; he must be unwell.” 

“ He unwell ! ” said the professor, shrugging his shoulders. “ Come, 
my poor girl, we must talk over this matter; and since you have at 
last opened your heart to me, I must open mine also. Give me your 
arm : we can converse as we go along. Listen, Gonsuelo, and attend 
earnestly to what I say. You cannot — you ought not — to be the wife 
of this young man. I forbid you, in the name of God, who has in- 
spired me with the feelings of a father towards you.” 

“ Oh, my master,” replied Gonsuelo, mournfully, “ ask of me the 
sacrifice of my life, but not that of my love.” 

“ I do not ask it— I command it,” said Porpora, firmly. “ The lov- 
er is accursed— he will prove your torment and your shame, if you do 
not forswear him for ever.” 

“Dear master,” replied she, with a sad and tender smile, “ you have 
told me so very often ; I have endeavored in vain to obey you. You 
dislike this poor youth; you do not know him, and I am certain you 
will alter your mind.” 

“ Gonsuelo,” said the master, more decidedly, “ I have till now, I 
know, made vain and useless objections. I spoke to you as an artist, 
and as to an artist— as I only saw one in your, betrothed. Now I 


CONSUELO, 


93 

speak to you as a man — I speak to you of a man — and I address you 
as a woman. This woman’s love is wasted : the man is unworthy of 
it, and he who tells you so knows he speaks the truth.” 

“ Oh, Heaven ! Anzoleto — my only friend, my protector, my brother 
—unworthy of my love ! Ah, you do not know what he has done for 
me— how he has cared for me since I was left alone in the world. I 
must tell you all.” And Consuelo related the history of her life and 
of her love, and it was one and tne same history. 

Porpora was affected, but not to be shaken from his purpose. 

“ In all this,” said he, “ I see nothing but your innocence, your 
virtue, your fidelity. As to him, I see very well that he has need of 
your society and your instructions, to which, whatever you may think, 
he owes the little that he knows, and the little he is worth. It is not, 
however, the less true, that this pure and upright lover is no better 
than a castaway — that he spends his time and money in low dissipa- 
tion— and only thinks of turning you to the best account in forward- 
ing his career.” 

“ Take heed to what you say,” replied Consuelo, in suffocating ac- 
cents. “I have always believed in you, oh, my master I after God; 
but as to what concerns Anzoleto, I have resolved to close my heart 
and my ears. Ah, suffer me to leave you,” she added, taking her arm 
from the professor — “ it is- death to listen to you.” 

“ liCt it be death then to your fatal passion, and through the truth 
let me restore you to life,” he said, pressing her arm to his generous 
and indignant breast. “ I know that I am rough, Consuelo — I cannot 
be otherwise ; and therefore it is that I have put off as long as I 
could the blow which I am about to inflict. I had hoped that you 
would open your eyes, in order that you might comprehend what was 
going on around you. But in place of being enlightened by expe 
rience, you precipitate yourself blindly into the abyss. I will not suf 
fer you to do so — you, the only one for whom I have cared for many 
years. You must not perish — no, you must not perish.” 

“ But, my kind friend, I am in no danger. Ho you believe that I 
tell an untruth when I assure you by all that is sacred that I have re- 
spected my mother’s wishes ? I am not Anzolefo’s wife, but I am his 
betrothed.” 

“ And you were seeking this evening the man who may not and 
cannot be your husband.” 

“ Who told you so ? ” 

“ Would Corilla ever permit him ? ” 

“ Corilla! — what has he to say to Corilla? ” 

“ We are but a few paces from this girl’s abode. Ho you seek your 
betrothed? — if you have courage, you will find him there.” 

“ No, no ! a thousand times no ! ” said Consuelo, tottering as she 
went, and leaning for sup])ort against the wall. “ Let me live, my 
master — do not kill me ere I have well begun to live. I told you that 
it w’as death to listen to you.” 

“You must drink of the cup,” said the inexorable old man; “ I but 
fulfil your destiny. — Having only realised ingratitude, and consequent- 
ly made the objects of my tenderness and attention unhappy, I must 
say the truth to those I love. It is the only thing a heart long with- 
ered and I'endered callous by suffering and despair can do. I pity 
you, poor girl, in that you have not a friend more gentle and humane to 
sustain you in such a crisis. But such as I am I must be ; I must act 
upon others, if not as with the sun’s genial heat, with the lightning’s 


94 


C O N S U E L O, 


blasting power. So then, Consuelo, let there be no faltering between 
us. Come to this palace. You must surprise your faithless lover at 
the feet of the treacherous Gorilla. If you cannot walk, I must drag 
you along — if you cannot stand, I shall carry you. Ah, old Porpora 
is yet strung, when the lire of Divine anger bums in his heaj’t.” 

“ Mercy ! mercy ! ” exclaimed Consuelo, pale as death. “ Suffer me 
yet tc doubt. Give me a day, were it but a single day, to believe in 
him — I am not j)repared for this affliction.” 

“ No, not a day — not a single hour,” replied he inflexibly. “ Away ! 
I s^lall nr)t be able to recall the iDussing hour, to lay the truth open to 
you; and the faithless one will take advantage of the day which you 
ask, to place you again under the dominion of falsehood. Come with 
itie, 1 command you — I insist on it.” 

“ Well, I will go! ” exclaimed Consuelo, regaining strength, through 
a violent reaction of her love. “ I will go, were it only to demonstrate 
your injustice and the truth of my lover; for you deceive yourself 
unworthily, as you would also deceive me. Come, then, executioner 
as you are, I shall follow, for I do not fear you.” 

Porpora took her at her word ; and, seizing her with a hand of iron, 
he conducted her to the mansion which he inhabited. Having passed 
through the corridors and mounted the stairs, they reached at last a 
terrace, whence they could distinguish over the roof of a lower build- 
ing, completely uninhabited, the palace of Gorilla, entirely darkened 
with the exception of one lighted window, which opened upon the 
sombre and silent front of the deserted house. Any one at this window 
might suppose that no person could see them ; for the balcony prevent- 
ed any one from seeing up from below. There w'as nothing level with 
it, and above, nothing but the cornice of the house which Porpora 
inhabited, and which was not placed so as to command the palace of 
the singer. But Gorilla was ignorant that there was at the angle a 
projection covered with lead, a sort of recess concealed by a lai’ge 
chimney, where the maestro wdth artistic caprice came every evening 
to gaze at the stars, shun his fellows, and dream of sacred or dramatic 
subjects. Chance had thus revealed to him the intimacy of Anzoleto 
with Gorilla, and Consuelo had only to look in the direction pointed 
out, to discover her lover in a tender tete-a-tete wdth her rival. She 
instantly turned away: and Porpora, who dreading the effects of the 
sight upon her, had held her with superhuman strength, led her to a 
lower story in his apartments, shutting .the door and window to con- 
ceal the e.xplosion which he anticipated. 


CHAPTER XX. 

But there was no explosion. Consuelo remained silent, and as it 
were stunned. Porpora spoke to her. She made no reply, and signed 
to him n()t to question her. She then rose, and going to a large 
pitcher of iced water which stood on the harpsichord, swallowed 
large draughts of it, took several turns up and down the apartment, 
and sat down before her master without uttering a word. 

The austere old man di 1 not comprehend the extremity of her 
sufferings. 


CONSUELO. 95 

“Well.” said he, “did I deceive you? What do you thiuk of 
doing ? * ' 

A painful shudder shook her motionless figure— she passed her 
hand over her forehead. 

“I can think of nothing,’’ said she, “till I understand what has 
happened to me.” 

“ And what remains to be understood ? ” 

“ Everything ! because I understand nothing. I am seeking for the 
cause of my misfortune without finding anything to explain it to me. 
What have I done to Anzoleto that he should cease to love me? 
What fault have I committed to render me unworthy in his eyes ? 
You cannot tell me, for I searched into my own heart and can find 
there no key to the mystery. O ! it is inconceivable. My mother be- 
lieved in the power of charms. Is Gorilla a magician?” 

“My poor child,” said the maestro, “there is indeed a magician, 
but she is called Vanity; there is indeed a poison, which is called 
Envy. Gorilla can dispense it, but it was not she who molded the 
soul so fitted for its reception. The venom already flowed in the im- 
pure veins of Anzoleto. An extra dose has changed him from a 
knave into a traitor — faithless as well as ungrateful.” 

“ What vanity, what envy? ” 

“ The vanity of surpassing others. The desire to excel, and rage 
at being surpassed by you.” 

“Is that possible? Gan a man be jealous of the advantages of^ a 
woman ? Gan a lover be displeased with the success of his beloved ? 
Alas ! there are indeed many things which I neither know nor under- 
stand.” 

“ And will never comprehend, but which you will experience every 
hour of your existence. You will learn that a man can be jealous of 
the superiority of a woman, when this man is an ambitious aitist: and 
that a lovei’ can loathe the success of his beloved when the theatre is the 
arena of their efforts. It is because the actor is no longer a man, Gonsu- 
elo — he is turned into a woman. He lives but through the medium of 
his sickly vanity, which alone he seeks to gratify and for which alone he 
labors. The beauty of a woman he feels a grievance; her talent ex- 
tinguishes or competes with his own. A woman is his rival, or rather 
he is the rival of a woman; he has all the littleness, all the caprice, 
all the wants, all the ridiculous airs of a coquette. This is the char- 
acter of the greatest number of persons belonging to the theatre. 
There are indeed grand exceptions, but they are so rare, so admirable, 
that one should bow before them and render them homage, as to the 
wisest and best. Anzoleto is no exception ; he is the vainest of the 
vain. In that one word you have the explanation of his conduct.” 

“ But what unintelligible revenge! What poor and insufficient 
means! How can Gorilla recompense him for his losses with the 
public? Had he only spoken openly to me of his sufferings (alas! it 
needed only a word for that,) I should have understood him perhaps 
— at least I would have compassionated him, and retired to yield him 
the fii'st place.” 

“ It is the peculiarity of envy to hate people in proportion to the 
happiness of which it deprives them ; just as it is the peculiarity of 
selfish love to hate in the object which we love, the pleasure which we 
are not the means of procuring him. Whilst your lover abhors the 
public which loads you with glory, do you not liate the rival who in- 
toxicates him with her charms?” 


96 


CONSUELO. 


“ My master, you have uttered a profound reflection, which I would 
fain ponder on.’’ 

“ It is true. While Anzoleto detests you for your happiness on the 
stage, you hate him for his happiness in the boudoir of Gorilla.” 

“ It is not so. I could not hate him ; and you have made me feel 
that it would be cowardly and disgraceful to hate my rival. As to the 
passion with which she fills him, I shudder to think of it — why, I know 
not. If it be involuntary on his part, Anzoleto is not guilty in hating 
my success.” 

“You are quick to interpret matters, so as to excuse his conduct 
and sentiments. No ; Anzoleto is not innocent or estimable in his sut- 
fering like you. He deceives, he disgraces you, whilst you endeavor to 
justify him. However, I did not wish to inspire you with hatred and 
resentment, but with calmness and indifference. The character of 
this man influences his conduct. You will never change him. De- 
cide, and think only of yourself.” 

“ Of myself— of myself alone? Of myself, without hope or love?” 

“Think of music, the divine art, Consuelo; you would not dare to 
say that you love it only for Anzoleto? ” 

“ I have loved art for itself also ; but I never separated in my 
thoughts these inseparable objects — my life and that of Anzoleto. 
How shall I be able to love anything when the half of my existence 
is taken away ? ” 

“ Anzoleto was nothing more to you than an idea, and this idea im 
parted life. You will replace it by one greater, purer, more elevating. 
Your soul, your genius, your entire being, will no longei’ be at the 
mercy of a deceitful, fragile form; you shall contemplate the sublime 
ideal stripped of its earthly covering ; you shall mount heavenward, 
and live in holy unison with God himself.” 

“ Do you wish, as you once did, that I should become a nun ? ” 

“No; this would confine the exercise of your artistic faculties to 
one direction, whereas you should embrace all. Whatever you do, or 
wherever you are, in the theatre or in the cloister, you may be a 
saint, the bride of heaven.” 

“ What you say is full of sublimity, but shrouded in a mysterious 
garb. Permit me to retire, dear master; I require time to collect my 
thoughts and question my heart.” 

“ You have said it, Consuelo ; you need insight into yourself. Hith- 
erto in giving up your heart and your prospects to one so much your 
inferior, you have not known yourself. You have mistaken your des- 
tiny, seeing that you were born without an equal, and consequently 
without the possibility of an associate in this world. Solitude, abso- 
lute liberty, are needful for you. I would not wish you a husband, or 
lover, or family, or passions, or bonds of any kind. It is thus I have 
conceived your existence, and would direct your career. The day on 
which you give yourself away, you lose your divinity. Ah, if Mingotti 
and Moltini, my illustrious pupils, my powerful creations, had believed 
in me, they would have lived unrivalled on the earth. But woman is 
weak and curious; vanity blinds her, vain desires agitate, caprices 
liurry her away. In what do these disquietudes result?— what but 
in storms and weariness, in the loss, the destruction, or vitiation, of 
their genius. Would you not be more than they, Consuelo ? — does 
not your ambition soar above the poor concerns of this life? — or 
would you not appease these vain desires, and seize the glorious 
crown of everlasting genius ? ” 


CONSUELO. 


97 

Porpora continued to speak for a long time with an eloquence and 
energy to which I cannot do justice. Consuelo listened, her looks bent 
upon the ground. When he had finished, she said, “ My dear master, 
you are profound ; but I cannot follow you sufficiently throughout. 
It seems to me as if you outraged human nature in proscribing its 
most noble passions — as if you would extinguish the instincts which 
God himself has implanted, for the purpose of elevating what would 
otherwise be a monstrous and anti-social impulse. Were I a better 
Christian, I should perhaps better understand you; I shall try to be- 
come so, and that is all I can promise.” 

She took her leave, apparently tranquil, but in reality deeply agita- 
ted. The great though austere artist conducted her home, always 
preaching, but never convincing. He nevertheless was of infinite ser- 
vice in opening to her a vast field of serious thought and inquiry, where- 
in Anzoleto’s particular crime served but as a painful and solemn in- 
troduction to thoughts of eternity. She passed long hours, praying, 
weeping, and reflecting; then laydown to rest, with a virtuous and 
confiding hope in a merciful and compassionate God. 

The next day Porpora announced to her that there would be a re- 
hearsal of Ipermnestra for Stefanini, who was to fill Anzoleto’s part. 
The latter was ill, confined to bed, and complained of a loss of voice. 
Consuelo’s first impulse was to fly to him and nurse him. “ Spare 
yourself this trouble,” said the professor, “ he is perfectly well ; the 
physician of the theatre has said so, and he will be this evening with 
Gorilla. But Count Zustiniani, who understands very well the mean- 
ing of it, and who consents without much regret that he should put 
off his appearance, has forbidden the physician to reveal the falsehood, 
and has requested the good Stefanini to return to the theatre for some 
days.” 

“ But, good Heavens ! what does Anzoleto mean to do ? is he about 
to quit the theatre? ” 

“ Yes — the theatre of San Samuel. In a month he is off with 
Gorilla for France. That surprises you? He flies from the shadow 
which you cast over him. He has entrusted his fate to a woman 
whom he dreads less, and whom he will betray so soon as he finds he 
no longer requires her.” 

Consuelo turned pale, and pressed her hands convulsively on her 
bursting heart. Perhaps she had flattered herself with the idea of 
reclaiming Anzoleto, by reproaching him gently with his faults, and 
offering to put off her appearance for a time. This news was a dag- 
ger stroke to her, and she could not believe that she should no more 
see him whom she had so fondly loved. “ Ah,” said she, it is but 
an uneasy dream; I must go and seek him; he will explain every- 
thing. He cannot follow this woman ; it would be his destruction. I 
cannot permit him to do so; I will keep him back; I will make him 
aware of his true interests, if indeed he be any longer capable of com- 
prehending them. Come with me, dear master; let us not forsake 
him.” 

“ I will abandon you,” said the angry Porpora, “ and forever, if you 
commit any such folly. Entreat a wretch — dispute with Gorilla? 
Ah, Santa Cecilia ! distrust your Bohemian origin, extinguish your 
blind and wandering instincts. Come ! they are waiting for you at 
the rehearsal. You will feel pleasure in singing with a master like 
Stefanini, a modest, generous, and well-informed artist.” 

He led her to the theatre, and then for the first time she felt an ab- 
6 


98 


C O N S U E L O. 


horrence of this artist life, chained to the wants of the public, and 
obliged to repress one’s own sentiments and emotions to obey those 
of others. Tliis very rehearsal, the subsequent toilet, the perform- 
ance of the evening, proved a friglitful torment. Anzoleto was still 
absent. JSext day there was to be an opera buffa of Galuppi’s — 
Arcifanfano Be de’ Matti. They had chosen tliis larce to please ISte- 
fanini, who was an excellent comic performer. Coiisuelo must now 
make those laugh whom she had formerly made weep. She was bril- 
liant, charming, pleasing to the last degree, though plunged at the 
same time in despair. Twice or thrice sobs that would force their 
way found vent in a constrained gaiety, which would have appeai-ed 
frightful to those who understood it. On retiring to her box, she fell 
down insenaible. The public would have her return to receive their 
applause. She did not appear; a dreadful uproar took place, benches 
were brokctn, and people ti led to gain the stage. Stefanini hastened 
to her box, half dressed, his hair dishevelled, and pale as a spectre. 
She allowed herself to be supported back upon the stage, where she 
was received with a shower of bouquets, and forced to stoop to pick up 
a laurel crown. “ Ah, the pitiless monstei*s ! ” she murmui'ed, as she 
retired hebind the scenes. 

“ My sweet one,” said the old singer, who gave her his hand, “ you 
suffer greatly; but these little things,” added he, picking up a bunch 
of brilliant ilovvers, ” are a specific for all our woes; you will become 
used bo it, and the time perhaps will arrive when you will only feel fa- 
tigue and uneasiness when they forget to ci-own.” 

“ Oh, how liollow and trifling they are!” thought poor Oonsuelo. 
Having re-entered her box, she fainted away, literally upon a bed of 
flowers which had been gathered on the stage and thrown pell-mell 
upon the sofa. The tire-woman left the box to call a pliysician. 
Count Zustiniani i-emained for some instants alone by the side of his 
beautiful singer, who looked pale and broken as the beautiful jasmines 
which strewed her couch. Carried away by his admiration, Zustin- 
iani lost his I'eason, and yielding to his foolish hopes, he seized her 
hand and carried it to his lips. But bis touch was odious to the pure- 
minded Consuelo. She roused herself to repel him, as if it had been 
the bite of a serpent. “Ah! far from me, said she, writhing in a 
species of delirium; “far from me all love, all caresses, all honied 
words! — no love — no husband — no lover — no family for me! my dear 
master has said it — liberty, the ideal, solitude, glory!” And she 
meltetl into tears so agonizing that the count was alarmed, and cast- 
ing himself on his knees beside her strove to tranquilize her; but he 
could find no words of soothing import to that pierced soul; atid de- 
spite his efforts to conceal it, his passion would speak out. lie per- 
fectly understood the despairing love of the betrayed one, and he let 
too much of the ardor of the hopeful lover escape him. Consuelo 
seemed to listen, and mechanically drew her hand away from his, 
with a bewildered smile, which the count mistook for encouragement. 

Some men, although possessing great tact and penetration in the 
world, are absurd in such conjunctures. The physician arrived and 
administered a sedative in the style which they called drops. Consu- 
elo was then wrapped up in her mantle and carried to her gondola. 
The count entered with her, supporting her in his arms, and always 
talking of his loves, with some degree of eloquence, which, as he im- 
agined, must carry conviction. At the end of a quarter of an hour, 
ubtaining no response, he implored a reply, a glance. 


CONSUELO. 99 

“ To what then shall I answer?” said Consuelo, ‘ I have heard 
nothing.” 

Zustiniani, although at first discouraged, thought there could not be 
a better opportunity, and that this afflicted soul would be more acces- 
sible than after reflection and reason. He spoke again, but there was 
the same silence, the same abstraction, only that there was a not-to- 
be-mistaken effort, though without any angry demonstration, to repel 
his advances. When the gondola touched the shore, he tj ied to de- 
tain Consuelo for an instant to obtain a word of encouragement. 
“Ah, signor,” said she, coldly, “excuse my weak state. I have 
heard badly, but I understand. Oh yes, I understand perfectly. I 
ask this night, this one night, to reflect, to recover from my distress. 
To-morrow', yes, to-morrow, I shall reply without fail.” 

“ To-morrow ! dear Consuelo, oh, it is an ago ! But I shall submit 
— only allow me at least to hope for your friendship.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes! there is hope,” replied Consuelo, in a constrained 
voice, placing her foot upon the bank; “ but do not follow me,” said 
she, as she motioned him with an imperious gesture back to the gon- 
dola; “ otherwise there will be no room for hope.” 

Shame and anger restored her strength, but it was a nervous, fev- 
erish strength, which found vent in hysteric laughter as she ascended 
the stairs. 

“ You are very happy, Consuelo,” said a voice in the darkness, 
which almost stunned her; “ I congratulate you on your gaiety.” 

“ Oh, yes,” she replied, while she seized Anzoleto’s arm violently, 
and rapidly ascended with him to her chamber. “ I thank you, An- 
zoleto. You were right to congratulate me. I am truly happy — oh, 
so happy ! ” 

Anzoleto, who had been waiting for her, had already lighted the 
lamp, and when the bluish light fell upon their agitated features, they 
both started back in affright. 

“We are very happy, are we not, Anzoleto?” said she, with a 
choking voice, while her features were distorted with a smile that 
covered her cheeks with tears. “What think you of our happi- 
ness ? ” 

“ I think, Consuelo,” replied he, with a calm and bitter smile, “ that 
we have found it troublesome ; but we shall get on better by-and- 
bye.” 

“ You seemed to me to be much at home in Corilla’s boudoir.” 

“And you, I find, very much at your ease in the gondola of the 
count.” 

“ The count! You knew, then, Anzoleto, that the count wished to 
supplant you in my affections ? ” 

“ And in order not to annoy you, my dear, I prudently kept in the 
background.” 

“ Ah, you knew it ; and this is the time you have taken to abandon 
me.” 

“ Have I not done well ?— are you not content with your lot? The 
count is a generous lover, and the poor, condemned singer would have 
no business, I fancy, to contend with him.” 

“ Porpora was right; you are an infamous man. Leave my sight! 
You do not deserve that I should justify myself. It would be a stain 
were I to regret you. Leave me, I tell you; but first know, that 
you can come out at Venice and re-enter San Samuel with Corilla. 
Never shall my mothers daughter set foot upon the vile boards of a 
theatre again.” 


Lof C. 


100 


CONSUELO, 


“ The daughter of your mother the zingara will play the great lady 
in the villa of Zustiiiiani, on the shores of the Brenta. It will be a 
fair career, and I shall be glad of it.” 

“Oh my mother!” exclaimed Consuelo, turning towards the bed 
and falling on her knees, as she buried her face in the counterpane 
which had served as a shroud for the zingara. 

Anzoleto was terrified and afflicted by this energetic movement, and 
the convulsive sobs which burst from the breast of Consuelo. Re- 
morse seized on his heart, and he approached his betrothed to raise 
her in his arms ; but she rose of herself, and pushing him from her 
with wild strength, thrust him towards the door, exclaiming as she 
did so, “ Away — away ! from my heart, from my memory !— farewell 
forever ! ” 

Anzoleto had come to seek her with a low and selfish design ; nev- 
ertheless it was the best thing he could have done. He could not 
bear to leave her, and he had struck out a plan to reconcile matters. 
He meant to inform her of the danger she ran from the designs of 
Zustiniani, and thus remove her from the theatre. In this resolution 
he paid full homage to the pride and purity of Consuelo. He knew 
her incapable of tampering with a doubtful position, or of accepting 
protection which ought to make her blush. His guilty and eorrupt 
soul still retained unshaken faith in the innocence of this young girl, 
whom he was certain of finding as faithful and devoted as he had left 
her days before. But how reconcile this devotion with the precon- 
ceived design of deceiving her, and, without a rupture with Corilla, 
of remaining still Imr betrothed, her friend ? He wished to re-enter 
the theatre with the latter, and could not think of separating at the 
very moment when his success depended on her. This audacious and 
cowardly plan was nevertheless formed in his mind, and he treated 
Consuelo as the Italian women do those madonnas w'hose protection 
they implore i-n the hour of repentance, and whose faces they veil in 
their erring moments. 

When he beheld her so brilliant and so gay, in her buffa part at the 
theatre, he began to fear that he had lost too much time in maturing 
his design. When he saw her return in the gondola of the count, and 
approach with a joyous burst of laughter, he feared he was too late, 
and vexation seized him ; but when she rose above his insults, and 
banished him with scorn, respect returned with fear, and he wan- 
dered long on the stair and on the quay, expecting her to recall him. 
He even ventured to knock and implore pardon through the door; but 
a deep silence reigned in that chamber, whose threshold he was never 
to cross with Consuelo again. He retired, confused and chagrined, 
determined to return on the morrow, and flattering himself that he 
should then prove more successful. — “After all,” said he to himself, 
“ my project wull succeed ; she knows the count’s love, and all that is 
requisite is half done.” 

Overwhelmed with fatigue, he slept: long in the afternoon he w^ent 
to Corilla. 

“Great new's!^’ she exclaimed, running to meet him with out- 
stretched arms ; “ Consuelo is off.” 

“Off! gracious Heaven ! — whither, and with whom ? ” 

“ To Vienna, where Porpora has sent her, intending to join her 
there himself. She has deceived us all, the little cheat. She was en- 
gaged for the emperor’s theatre, where Porpora proposes that she 
should appear in his new opera.” 


CONSUELO. 101 

“ Gone ! gone without a word ! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, rushing to- 
v/ards the door. 

“ It is of no use seeking her in Venice,” said Gorilla with a sneer- 
ing smile and a look of triumph, “ Slie set out for Palestrina at day- 
break, and is already far from this on the mainland. Zustiniani, who 
thought himself beloved, but who was only made a fool of, is furious, 
and confined to his couch with fever; but he sent Porpora to me just 
now, to try and get me to sing this evening; and Stefan ini, who is 
tired of the stage, and anxious to enjoy the sweets of retirement in 
his cassino, is very desirous to see you resume your performances. 
Therefore prepare for appearing to-morrow in Ipermnestra. In the 
mean time, as they are waiting for me, I must run away. If you do 
not believe, you can take a turn through the city, and convince your- 
self that I have told you the truth.” 

“ By all the furies! ” exclaimed Anzoleto, “you have gained your 
point, but you have taken my life along with it.” 

And he swooned away on the Persian carpet of the false Gorilla. 


JHAPTEK XXL 

Of all others the Gount Zustiniani w’as the person most put out in 
his part by the flight of Gonsuelo. After having allowed it to be said 
and, indeed, induced all Venice to believe, that the wonderful new 
actress was his mistress, how was he to explain, in a manner 
tolerably satisfactory to his own self-love, the fact, that on his first 
word of declaration, she had abruptly and mysteriously evaded his 
hopes and desires? Some persons were of opinion that, jealous 
of his treasure, he had concealed her in one of his country house.'!. 
But when Porpora was heard to declare, with his wonted stern grav- 
ity, the part which his pupil had adopted — of going in advance of 
him into Germany — there was no more to be done, but to seek the 
causes of her singular resolution. The count, in order to divert men’s 
minds, affected to be neither vexed nor surprised; but still his annoy- 
ance leaked out in spite of him, and the world ceased to atti'ibute to 
him, in this instance, the success on which he so greatly prided him- 
self. The greater part of the truth, in fact, soon became known to 
the public — to wit: Anzoleto’s faithlessness. Gorilla’s rivalry, and the 
despair of the poor Spaniard, who was now warmly pitied and ten- 
derly regretted. Anzoleto’s first impulse was to hurry to Porpora; 
but he had met with the sternest repulses from him. “ Gease ques- 
tioning me, young ambitious fool, heartless and faithless that you 
are,” replied the master, with noble indignation. “ You never de- 
served that noble girl’s affection, and never shall you learn of me 
w’hat has become of her. I will exert all my cares to prevent you 
from ever getting on her traces; and I hope that, should you ever 
chance to meet her at some future day, her image will be effaced from 
your heart and memory, as completely as I hope and endeavor to ef- 
fect that it shall be.” 

From the house of Porpora, Anzoleto had hastened to the Gorte 
Minelli, where he found Gonsuelo’s room occupied by a new tenant, 
who was already in possession,— and fitted up with the instruments 


CONSUELO. 


102 s 

and materials of his trade. He was a glass-worker, who had hmg 
dwelt in the same house, and was now gaily moving his workshop in- 
to his new premises. 

“Ah, ha! so this is you, my boy?” he cried to the young tenor; 
“so you have come to see me in my new lodging? I shall do very 
well here, and my wife is delighted at having means to lodge her 
children here down stairs. What are you looking for ? Has Consuelo 
forgotten anything? Look away, my boy, look away; you cannot 
disturb me.” 

“ What have they done with her furniture? ” asked Anzoleto, dis- 
turbed, and really cut to the heart at seeing no vestige more of Con- 
suelo in this spot, consecrated to the only pure joys of his whole past 
existence. 

“The furniture is dowm yonder in the court; she made a, present 
of it to mother Agatha, and a good deed that was. The old woman 
is poor, and will make a little money out of it. Oh! Consuelo had a 
good heart. She has not left a farthing of debt in the court, and 
made every one a slight gift at her departure. She took nothing with 
her but her crucifix. It is strange, nevertheless, that she should have 
gone off in the dead of night without letting a soul know of it! 
Master Porpora came here this morning, and settled all her business; 
it was just like executing a will. All the neighbors were sorry for it; 
but after a while they all consoled themselves, knowing that she is 
gone to live in a fine palace on the Canalazzo, now that she has be- 
come rich and a great lady. For my part, I was always sure that she 
would make a fortune with her voice, she worked* so hard. And when 
are you to be married, Anzoleto ? I hope that you will buy some 
trifles of me to make presents to the girls of the neighborhood.” 

“ Oh, surely, surely,” answered Anzoleto, without knowing what he 
said ; and he hurried away with hell in his heart, and saw all the 
beldames of the place bidding at auction in the court-yard for Con- 
suelo’s bed and table — that bed on which he had so often seen her 
sleep, that table at which she had sat so often ! “ Oh, my God ! already 
not a sign left of her! ” he cried, wringing his hands involuntarily, 
and be felt pretty well inclined to go and stab Corilla. 

Three days afterwards he came upon the stage again with Corilla. 
They were hissed tremendously, one and the other, and the curtain fell 
amid a storm of censure, with the piece unfinished. Anzoleto was 
furious, and Corilla utterly unmoved. “ Behold the worth of your 
protection to me.” he cried, in threatening tones, as soon as he was 
again alone with her. The prima donna answered him with infinite 
composure — “ You worry yourself about nothing, my child,” said she; 
“ it is not difficult to perceive that you know nothing about the 
world, and are unused to its caprices. I was so well prepared for this 
evening’s reception, that I did not even give myself the trouble of go- 
ing over my part; and the only reason why I did not warn you what 
was to come, is, tliat I knew you had not tlie courage to come upon 
the Stage at all, with the certainty of being hissed. Now you must be 
made aware what we have to look for. The next time we shall be 
treated worse yet. Three, four, perhaps six or eight appearances of 
this kind will, pass in succession. But, if we were the most wretched 
bunglers in the world, the spirit of independence and contradiction 
will raise up for us some zealous partisans. There are so many folks 
who think to elevate themselves by running down others, that there 
must needs be some who think to raise themselves by helping others 


C (> N S U E L O. 


103 


forward. After ton or a dozen contests, during which the theatre 
will be a battle held — half hissing, half applause — the opposition will 
get tired, our obstinate supporters will get sulky, and we shall enter 
upon a new state of allairs. That portion of the public which sup- 
ported us, why, itself knew not, will listen to us very coldly; we shall 
have, as it were, a new debut; and then all is our own way, thank 
God ! for we have but to fire the audience, and to remain masters of 
the held. I promise you great success from that moment, dear An- 
zoleto; the charm which weighed you down of late, is dissipated. 
You will breathe, thenceforth, an atmosphere of un mixed favor and 
sweet praises, and your powers will be restored straightways. Re- 
member the effect of your hrst appearance at Zustiniani’s; you had 
not then the time to establish yourself hrmly on that victorious foot- 
ing — a star, before which yours paled, culminated in the sky; but that 
star has, in its turn, been unsphered, and you may prepare yourself 
again with me to scale the empyrean.” 

All fell out to the letter, as Gorilla foretold it. For, of a truth, the 
two lovers were made to pay very dearly for the first few days, for the 
loss the public had undergone in the person of Consuelo. But the 
hardihood which they exerted in braving the storm, lasted longer than 
the indignation, which was too lively to be durable. The count lent 
his encouragement to Gorilla's efforts. As to Anzoleto, — not until he 
had made every exertion in vain, to attract a prinio nnmo to Venice 
at so advanced a season, when all the engagements have been made 
with all the principal theatres in Europe, did the count come to a de- 
cision, and receive him as his champion in the strife which was about 
to commence between his theatre and the public. The career and 
reputation of that theatre had been, by far too brilliant, that it should 
lose it witli this or that performer. Nothing of the nature of the 
present contest was likely to affect the course of usages so long estab- 
lished. All the boxes had been hired for the season; and the ladies 
were in the habit of receiving their visits, and chatting in them as 
usual. The real amateurs of music were out of sorts for some time, 
but they were too few in number to produce any perceivable effect. 
Moreover, in the long run, they got bored by their own anger, and 
Gorilla, having sung one evening with unwonted animation, was 
unanimously called for. She reappeared, drawing Anzoleto on the 
stage along with her, although he liad not been recalled, appearing to 
yield to her gentle violence with modest timidity. In a word, before 
a month had elapsed, Gonsnelo, was forgotten like the lightning which 
flashes and vanishes along a summer sky. Gorilla was the rage as 
much as ever, and perhaps deserved to be so more than ever; for 
emulation had given her an enthusiasm, and love an expression of 
sentiment which she had lacked before. As for Anzoleto, though he 
had got rid of no one of his faults, he had contrived to display all the 
unquestionable qualities which he did possess. His fine personal ap- 
pearance captivated the women; ladies vied for his presence at even- 
ing parties, the more so that Gorilla’s jealousy added something 
piquant to the coquetries which were addressed to him. Glorinda, 
moreover, devolved all her theatrical resources, that is to say, her 
full blown beauty and the voluptuous nonclialance of her unexam- 
pled dulness, vv-hich was not without its attraction for spectators of a 
certain order. Zustiniani, in order to divert his mind from the real 
disappointment he had undergone, had made her his mistress, loaded 
her with diamonds, and thrust her forward into first parts, hoping to 


104 


C O N S U E L (). 


fit her to succeed Gorilla in that position, since she was definitively 
engaged at Paris for the following season. 

Gorilla regarded tliis rivalry, from which she had nothing whatever 
to appreheiKl, either present or future, without a touch of annoy- 
ance or of alarm ; she even took a mischievous pleasure in displaying 
the coldly impudent incapacity of her rival, which was daunted by no 
difficulties. 

In the full tide of his prosperity and success, (for the count had 
given him a very good engagement,) Anzoleto was weighed down by 
disgust and self-reproach, which prevented his enjoying his onerous 
good fortune. It was truly pitiful to see him dragging himself to re- 
hearsals, linked to the arm of Gorilla in her haughty triumph, pale, 
languid, handsome, as a man can be, ridiculously over-dressed, worn 
out like one overdone with adoration, fainting and unbraced among 
the laurels and the myrtles which he had so liberally and so indolently 
won. Even when upon the stage, when in the midst of a scena with 
liis fiery mistress, he could not refrain from defying her by his haughty 
attitude and the superb languor of his impertinence. When she 
seemed to devour him with her eyes, he replied to the public by a 
glance, which appeared to say — “ Fancy not that I respond to all this 
love! Far from it; he who shall rid me of it, shall serve me largely.” 

In real truth, Anzoleto, having been corrupted and spoiled by Go- 
rilla, poured out upon her those phials of selfishness and ingratitude, 
which she urged him to pour out against all the World beside. There 
w'as but one true, one pure sentiment which now remained in his 
heart; it was the indestructible love which he still cheiished, in de- 
spite of all his vices, for Gonsuelo. lie could divert his mind from it, 
thanks to his natural levity, but cure it he could not; and that love 
came back upon him as a remorse — as a torture — in the midst of his 
guilty excesses. Faithless to Gorilla, given up to numberless inti'igues 
— avenging himself to-day upon the count with Goi-illa, to-morrow 
amusing himself with some fashionable beauty — the third day with 
the low'est of their sex; passing from mystic appointments to open 
revelries, he seemed struggling to hury the past in the oblivion of the 
present. But in the midst of these disoialers, a ghost seemed to 
haunt him; and sighs would burst from his breast, as he glided in his 
gondola at dead of night, with his debauched companions, beside the 
dark buildings of the Gorte Minelli. (-orilla, long since conquered by 
his cruel treatment, and inclined, as all base spirits are — to love the 
more in proportion as they are the moi e scorned and outraged — began 
herself to hate him, and to gi-ow weary of her fatal passion. 

One night as Anzoleto floated with Clorinda through the streets of 
Venice in his gondola, another gondola, shot by them rapidly — its ex- 
tinguished lantern proving its clandestine errand. He scarcely heed- 
ed it; but Glorinda, who was ever on thorns from her fear of discov- 
ery, said to him — “ Let us go slower; ’tis the count’s gondola; I know 
his barcarole.” 

“ Is it— Oh, then,” cried Anzoleto, “ I wall overtake him, and find 
out what infidelity he is at to-night.’' 

“ No, no; let us go back,” cried Glorinda. “ His e3’e — his ear, is so 
quick. Do not let us intrude upon his leisure.” 

“On! Isay, on!” cried Anzoleto to the gondolier; “ I must over- 
take that gondola ahead of us.” 

Spite of all Glorinda’s tears, all her entreaties, it -was but a second ere 
the boats clasped together, and a burst of laughter from the other gon- 


C O N S U E L O. 


105 

dola fell upon Anzoleto’s ear. “ Ah ! this is fair war — it is Gorilla 
enjoying the breeze with the count.” As he spoke, Anzoleto jumped 
to the bow of his gondola, snatched the oar from his barcarole, and 
darting on the track of the other gondola, again grazed its side; and, 
whether he heard his own name among Gorilla’s bursts of laughter, 
or whether he was indeed mad, he cried aloud, “ Sweetest Glorinda, 
unquestionably, you are the loveliest and the dearest of your sex.” 

“ I was just telling Gorilla so,” said the count, coming easily out of 
his cabin, and approaching the other barque. “ And now as we have 
both brought our excursions to an end, we can make a fair exchange, 
as honest folks do of equally valuable merchandise.” 

“ Gount, you but do justice to my love of fair play,” replied Anzo- 
leto, in the same tone, “ If he* permit me, I will offer him my arm, 
that he may himself escort the fair Glorinda into his gondola.” 

The count reached out his arm to rest upon Anzoleto’s; but the 
tenor, inflamed by hatred, and transported with rage, leaped with all 
his weight upon the count’s gondola and upset it, crying with savage 
voice — ” Signor count, gondola for gondola ! ” Then abandoning his 
victims to their fate, and leaving Glorinda speechless with terror and 
trembling for the consequences of his frantic conduct, he gained the 
opposite bank by swimming, took his course through the daih and 
tortuous streets, entered his'lodging, changed his clothes in a twink- 
ling, gathered together all the money he had, left the house, threw 
himself into the first shallop which was getting under way for Trieste, 
and snapped his fingers in triumph as he saw in the dawn of morn- 
ing, the clock-towers and domes of Venice sink beneath the waves. 


GHAPTER XXII. 

In the •w'estern range of the Garpathian mountains, which separ- 
ates Bohemia from Bavaria, and which receives in these countries the 
name of the Boehmer Wald, there was still standing, about a century 
ago, an old country seat of immense extent, called, in consequence of 
some forgotten tradition, the Gastle of the Giants. — Though present- 
ing at a distance somewhat the appearance of an ancient fortress, it 
Avas no more than a private residence, furnished in the taste, then 
somewhat antiquated, but always rich and sumptuous, of Louis XIV. 
The feudal style of architecture had also undergone various tasteful 
modifications in the parts of the edifice occupied by the Lords of 
Kudolstadt, masters of this rich domain. 

The family was of Bohemian origin, but had become naturalized in 
Germany, on its members changing their name, and abjuring the 
principles of the Reformation, at the most trying period of the Thirty 
Years’ War. A noble and valiant ancestor, of inflexible Protestant 
principles, had been murdered on the mountain in the neigliborhood 
of his castle, by the fanatic soldiery. His widow, who was of a Sax- 
on fiunily, saved tlie fortune and the life of her young children by de- 
claring herself a Gatholic, and entrusting to the .Jesuits the education 
of the heirs :of Rudolstadt. After two generations had passed away, 
Bohemia being silent and oppressed, the Austrian power permanently 
established, and the glory and misfortunes of the Reformation at last 


106 


CONSUELO. 


ajDparenlly forgotten, the Lords of Rudolstadt peacefully practised the 
Chiistiaii virtues, professed the Romish faith, and dwelt on their es- 
tates in unostentatious state, like good aristocrats, and faithful ser- 
vants of Maria Theresa. They had formerly displayed their bravery, 
in the service of their emperor, Charles Vi; but it was strange that 
young Albert, the last of this Illustrious and powerful race, and the only 
son of Count Christian Rudolstadt, had never borne arms in tiie War of 
Succession, which had just terminated; and that he had reached his 
thirtieth year without having sought any other distinction than what 
he inherited Irom his birth and fortune. Tliis unusual course had in- 
spired his sovereign with suspicion of collusion with her enemies: 
but Count Christian, having had the honor to receive the empress in 
his castle, had given such reasons for the conduct of his son as seemed 
to satisfy her. Nothing, however, had transpired of the conversation 
between Maria Theresa and Count Rudolstadt. A strange mystery 
reigned in the bosom of this devout and beneficent family, which for 
ten years a neighbor had seldom visited; which no business, no pleas- 
ure, no political agitation, induced to leave their domains; which 
paid largely and without a murmur all the subsidies required for the 
war, displaying no uneasiness in the midst of public danger and mis- 
fortune; which in fine seemed not to live after the same fashion as 
the other nobles, who viewed them with distrust, although knowing 
nothing of them but their praiseworthy deeds and noble conduct. 
At a loss to what to attribute this unsocial and retired mode of life, 
they accused the Rudolstadts sometimes of avarice, sometimes of 
misanthropy; but as their actions uniformly contradicted these impu- 
tations, their maligners were at length obliged to confine their re- 
proaches to their apathy and indifference. They asserted that Count 
Christian did not wish to expose the life of his son — the last of his 
race — in these disastrous wars, and the empress had, in exchange for 
his services, accepted a sum of money sufficient to equip a regiment 
of hussars. The ladies of rank who had marriageable daughters ad- 
mitted that Count Christian had done well ; but when they learned the 
determination that he seemed to entertain of providing a wdfe for his 
son in his own family, in the daughter of the Baron Frederick, his 
brother— when they understood that the young Baroness Amelia had 
Just quitted the convent at Prague, where she had been educated, to 
reside henceforth with her cousin in the Castle of the Giants — these 
noble dames unanimously pronounced the family of Rudolstadt to be 
a den of wolves, each of whom was more unsocial and savage than 
the others. A few devoted servants and faithful friends alone knew 
the secret of the family, and kept it strictly. 

This noble family was assembled one evening round a table profuse- 
ly loaded with game, and those substantial dishes with which our an- 
cestors in Slavonic states still continued to regale themselves at that 
period, notwithstanding the refinements which the court of Louis 
XV. had introduced into the aristocratic customs of a great part of 
Europe. An immense hearth, on which burned huge billets of oak, 
diffused heat throughout Uie large and gloomy'hall. Count Christian 
in a loud voice had just said grace, to which the other members of the 
family listened standing. Numerous aged and grave domestics, in 
the costume of the country — viz. : large mamaluke trousers, and long 
mustachios — moved slowly to and fro, in attendance on^heir honored 
masters. The chaplain of the castle was seated on the right of the 
count the young baroness on his left— “ next his heart,” as he was 


C O N S U E L O. 


lOT 


wont to say, with austere and paternal gallantry. The Baron Fred- 
erick, his junior brother, whom he always called his young brother,’^ 
from his being more than sixty years old, was seated opposite. The 
Canoness Wenceslawa of Kudolstadt, his eldest sister, a venerable 
lady of seventy, afflicted with an enormous hump, and a frightful 
leanness, took her place at the upper end of the table; while Count 
Albert, the son of Count Christian, the betrothed of Amelia, and the 
last of the Kudolstadts, came forward, pale and melancholy, to seat 
himself at the other end, opposite his noble aunt. 

Of all these silent personages, Albert was certainly the one least dis- 
posed and least accustomed to impart animation to the others. The 
chaplain was so devoted to his masters, and so reverential towards the 
head of the family in particular, that he never opened his mouth to 
speak unless encouraged to do so by a look from Count Christian ; 
and the latter was of so calm and reserved a disposition that he sel- 
dom required to seek from others a relief from his own thoughts. 

Baron Frederick was of a less thoughtful character and more active 
temperament, but he was by no means remarkable for animation. — 
Although mild and benevolent as his eldest brother, he had less intel- 
ligence and less enthusiam. His devotion was a matter of custom and 
politeness. His only passion was a love for the chase, in which he 
spent almost all his time, going out each morning and returning each 
evening, ruddy with exercise, out of breath, and hungry. He ate for 
ten, drank for thirty, and even showed some sparks of animation 
when relating how his dog Sapphire had started the hare, how Pan- 
ther liad unkenneled the wolf, or how his falcon Attila had taken 
flight; and when the company had listened to all this with inexhaus- 
tible patience, he dozed over quietly near the fire in a great black 
leathern arm-chair, and enjoyed his nap until his daughter came to 
warn him that the hour for retiring was about to strike. 

The canoness was the most conversable of the party. She might 
even be called chatty, for she discussed with the chaplain, two or 
three times a week, for an hour at a stretch, sundry knotty points 
touching the genealogy of Bohemian, Hungarian, and Saxon families, 
the names and biographies of whom, from kings down to simple gen- 
tlemen, she had on her finger ends. 

As for Count Albert, there was something repelling and solenm in 
his exterior, as if each of his gestures had been prophetic, each of his 
senteTices oracular to the rest of the family. — By a singular peculiarity 
inexplicable to anyone not acquainted with the secret of the mansion, 
as soon as he opened his lips, which did not happen once in twenty- 
four hours, the eyes of his friends and domestics were turned upon 
him ; and there was apparent on every face a deep anxiety, a painful 
and affectionate solicitude; always excepting that of the young Ame- 
lia, who listened to him with a sort of ironical impatience, and who 
alone ventured to reply, with the gay or sarcastic familiarity which 
hei- fancy prompted. 

This young girl, exquisitely fair, of a blooming complexion, lively, 
and well foi-med, was a little pearl of beauty; and when her waiting- 
maid told hei‘ so, in order to console her for her cheerless mode of 
life, “Alas!” the young girl would reply, “lam a pearl shut up in 
an oyster, of which this frightful Castle of the Giants is the shell.” 
This will serve to show the reader what sort of a petulant bird was 
shut up in so gloomy a cage. 

On this evening tlie solemn silence which weighed down the family 


108 


CONSUELO, 


particularly during the first course (for the two old gentlemen, the 
canoness, and the chaplain were possessed of a solidity and regularity 
of appetite which never failed), was interrupted by Count Albert. 

“ What frightful weather,” said he, with a profound sigh. 

Every one looked at him with surprise ; for if the weather had be- 
come gloomy and threatening during the hour they had been shut up 
in the interior of the castle, nobody could have perceived it, since the 
thick shutters were closed. Everything was calm without and within, 
and nothing announced an approaching tempest. 

Nobody, however, ventured to contradict Albert ; and Amelia con- 
tented herself with shrugging her shoulders, while the clatter of 
knives and forks, and the removal of the dishes by the servants, pro- 
ceeded, after a moment’s interruption, as before. 

“ Do not you hear the wind roaring amid the pines of the Boehmer 
Wald, and the voice of the torrent sounding in your ears ? ” continued 
Albert, in a louder voice, and with a fixed gaze at his father. 

Count Christian w'as silent. The baron, in his quiet way, replied, 
without removing his eyes from his venison, which he hewed with 
athletic hand, as if it had been a lump of granite; “ yes, we had wind 
and rain together at sunset, and I should not be surprised were the 
weather to change to-morrow.” 

Albert smiled in his strange manner, and everything again became 
still; but five minutes had hardly elapsed when a furious blast shook 
the lofty casements, howled wildly around the old walls, lashing the 
waters of the moat as with a whip, and died away on the mountain 
tops with a sound so plaintive, that every face, with the exception of 
Count Albert’s, who again smiled with the same indefinable expres- 
sion, grew pale. 

“At this very instant,” said he, “the storm drives a stranger to- 
wards our castle. You would do well. Sir Chaplain, to pray for those 
who travel beneath the tempest, amid these rude mountains.” 

“I hourly pray from my very soul,” replied the trembling chaplain, 
“ for those who are cast on the rude paths of life amid the tempests 
of human passions.” 

“ Do not reply, Mr. Cha[)lain,” said Amelia, without regai-ding the 
looks or signs which warned her on every side not to continue the 
conversation. “ You know very well that my cousin likes to torment 
people with his enigmas. For my part, I never think of finding them 
out.” 

Count Albert paid no more attention to the railleries of his cousin 
than she appeared to pay to his discourse. He leaned an elbow on 
his plate, which almost always remained empty and unused before 
him, and fixed his eyes on the damask table-cloth, as if making a 
calculation of the ornaments on the pattern, though all the while ab- 
sorbed in a reverie. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A FUUTOUS tempest raged during the supper, which meal lasted just 
tw'o hours, neither more nor less, even on last days, which were reli- 
giously observed, but which never prevented the count from indulging 
his customary habits, no less sacred to him than the usages of the^Ro- 


CONSUELO. 


109 


tnisli Church. Storms were too frequent in these mountains, and the 
immense forests which then covered their sides imparted to the echoes 
a chaiacter too well known to the inhabitants of the castle, to occa- 
sion them even a passing emotion. Nevertheless, the unusual agita- 
tion of Count Albert communicated itself to the rest of the family, and 
the baron, disturbed in the usual current of his reflections, might 
have evinced some dissatisfaction, had it been possible for his imper- 
turbable placidity to be for a moment ruffled. He contented himself 
with sighing deeply, when a frightful peal of thunder, occurring with 
the second remove, caused the carver to miss the clioice morsel of 
boar’s ham, which he was just then engaged in detaching. 

“ It cannot be helped,” said the baron, directing a compassionating 
smile towards the poor carver, who was quite downcast with his mis- 
hap. 

“ Yes, uncle, you are right,” exclaimed Count Albert, in a loud 
voice, and rising to his feet; “it cannot be helped. The Hussite is 
down; the lightning consumes it; Spring will revisit its foliage no 
more.” 

“ What say you, my son ? ” asked the old count, in a melancholy 
tone. “ Do you speak of the huge oak of the Schreckenstein ? ” * 

“ Yes, father; I speak of the great oak to whose branches we hung 
up some twenty monks the other day.” 

“ He mistakes centuries for weeks just now,” said the canoness in 
a low voice, while she made the sign of the cross. “ My dear child,” 
she continued, turning to her nephew, “ if you have really seen what 
has happened, or what is about to happen, in a dream, as has more 
than once been the case, this miserable withered oak, considering the 
sad recollections associated with the rock it shaded, will be no great 
loss.” . 

“ As for me,” exclaimed Amelia, “ I am delighted t)iat the storm 
has rid us of that gibbet, with its long, frightful skeleton arms, and its 
red trunk which seemed to ooze out blood. 1 never passed beneath 
it when the breeze of evening moved amid its foliage, without hear- 
ing sighs as if of agony, and commending my soul to God while I 
turned away and fled.” 

“Amelia,” replied the count, who just now appeared to hear her 
words for the first time perhaps for days, “ you did well not to remain 
beneath the Hussite as I did for hours, and even entire nights. You 
would have seen and heard things which would have chilled you with 
terror and never have left your memory.” 

“ Pray, be silent,” cried the young baroness, starting and moviirg 
from the table where Albert was leaning: “I cannot imagine what 
pleasure you take in terrifying others every time you open your lips.” 

“Would to Heaven, dear Amelia,” said the old baron, mildly, “it 
were indeed but an amusement which your cousin takes in uttering 
such things.” 

“ No, my father; I speak in all seriousness. The oak of the Stone 
of Terror is overthrown, cleft in pieces. You may send the wood- 
cutters to-morrow to remove it. 1 shall plant a cypress in its place, 
which I shall name, not the Hussite, but the Penitent, and the Stone 
of Terror shall be called the Stone of Expiation.” 

“Enough, enough, my son!” exclaimed the agonized old man. 
“Banish these melancholy images, and leave it to God to judge the 
actions of men.” 


« “ Stone of Terror,” — a name not unfrequently used in these regions. 


110 


CONSUELO. 


“ They have disappeared, father — annihilated with the implements 
of torture which the breath of the storm and the fire of Heaven have 
scattered in the dust. In place of pendent skeletons, fruits and flow- 
ers rock themselves amid the zephyrs on the new branches; and in 
place of the man in black who nightly lit up the flames beside the stake, 
I see a pure celestial soul, which hovers over my head and yours. The 
storm is gone — the danger over; those who travelled are in shelter; 
my soul is in peace, the period of expiation draws nigh, and 1 am about 
to be born again.” 

“ May what you say, O well-beloved child, prove true! ” said Chris- 
tian, with extreme tenderness; “ and may you be freed from the phan- 
toms which trouble your repose. Heaven grant me this blessing, and 
restore peace, and hope, and light to my son ! ” 

Before the old man had finished speaking, Albert leaned forward, 
and appeared to fall into a tranquil slumber. 

“What means this?” broke in the young baroness; “ what do I 
see ? — Albert sleeping at table ? V ery gallant, truly ! ” 

“ This deep and sudden sleep,” said the chaplain, surveying the 
young man with intense interest, “ is a favorable crisis, which leads 
me to look forward to a happy change, for a time at least, in his situa- 
tion.” 

“ Let no one speak to him, or attempt to arouse him,” exclaimed 
Count Christian. 

“ Merciful Heaven,” prayed the canoness, with clasped hands, 
“ realize this prediction, and let his thirtieth year be that of his re- 
covery ! ” 

“ Amen ! ” added the chaplain devoutly. “ Let us raise our hearts 
with thanks to the God of Mercy for the food which he has given us, 
and entreat him to deliver this noble youth, the object of so much so- 
licitude.” 

They rose for grace, and every one remained standing, absorbed in 
prayer, for the last of the Kudolstadts. As for the old count, tears 
streamed down his withered cheeks. He then gave orders to his 
faithful servants to convey his son to his apartment, vvhen Baron 
Frederick, considering how he could best display his devotion towards 
his nephew, observed with childish satisfaction ; “ Dear brother, a 
good idea has occurred to me. If your son awakens in the seclusion 
of his chamber, while digestion is going on, bad dreams may assail 
him. Bring him to the saloon, and place him in my large arm-chair. 
It is the best one for sleeping in the whole house. He will be better 
there than in bed, and when he awakens he will find a good fire and 
friends to cheer his heart.” 

“ You are right, brother,” replied Christian, “let us bear him to the 
saloon and place him on the large sofa.” 

“ It is wrong to sleep lying after dinner,” continued the baron ; “ I 
believe, brother, that I am aware of that from experience. Let him 
have niy arm-chair — yes, my arm-chair is the thing.” 

Christian very well knew that were he to refuse his brother’s offer, 
it would vex and annoy him: the young count was therefore propped 
up in the hunter’s leathern chair, but he remained quite insensible to 
the change, so sound was his sleep. The baron placed himself on an- 
other seat, and warming his legs before a fire worthy of the times of 
old, smiled with a triumphant air whenever the chaplain observed 
that Albert’s repose would assuredly have happy results. The good 
Boul proposed to give up his nap as well as his chair, and to join the 


CONSUELO 


111 


family in watching over the youth; but after some quarter of an hour, 
he was so much at ease that he began to snore after so lusty a fashion 
as to drown the last faint and now far distant gusts of the storm. 

The castle bell, which only rang on extraordinary occasions, was 
now heard, and old IJans, the head domestic, entered shortly after- 
wards with a letter, which he presented to Count Christian without 
sayingaword. He then retired into an adjoining apartment to await 
his master’s commands. Christian opened the fetter, cast his eyes on 
the signature, and handed the paper to the young baroness, with a 
request that she w’ould peruse the contents. Curious and excited, 
Amelia approached a candle, and read as follows ; — 

“ Illustiuous and well-beloved Lord Count: — 

‘‘Your Excellency has conferred on me the favor of asking a ser- 
vice at my hands. This, indeed, is to confer a greater favor than all 
those which I have already received, and of w’hich my heart fondly 
cherishes the remembrance. Despite my anxiety to execute your es- 
teemed orders, 1 did not hope to find so promptly ajid so suitably the 
individual that was required; but favorable circumstances having 
concurred to an unforseen extent in aiding me to fulfill the desires of 
your Highness, I hasten to send a young person who realizes at leas\ 
in part, the required conditions. 1 therefore send her oidy provision- 
ally, that your amiable and illustrious niece may not too impatiently 
await a more satisfactory termination to my researches and proceed- 
ings. 

“ The individual who has the honor to present this is my pupil, am. 
in a measure my adopted child ; she will prove, as the amiable baron- 
ess has desired, an agreeable and obliging companion, as well as a 
competent musical instructress. In other respects, she does not pos- 
sess the necessary information for a governess. She speaks several 
languages, though hardly sufficiently acquainted with them perhaps 
to teacli them. "Music slie knows thoroughly, and she sings remarka- 
bly well. Y^ou will be pleased w'ith her talents, her voice, her de- 
meanor, and not less so with the sweetness and dignity of her char- 
acter. Your Highness may admit her into your circle without risk of 
her infringing in any way on etiquette, or affording any evidence of 
low tastes.^ She wishes to I'emain free as regards your noble family, 
and therefore will accept no salary. In short, it is neither as a du- 
enna nor as a servant, but as companion and friend to the amiable 
baroness, that she appears: just as that lady did me the honor to 
mention in the gracious post scriptum which she added to your Excel- 
lency’s communication. 

“ Signor Corner who has been appointed ambassador to Austria, 
awaits* the orders for his departure; but these he thinks will notar- 
rive before two months. Signora Corner, his worthy spouse and my 
generous pupil, would have me accompany them to Vienna, where 
she thinks I should enjoy a happier career. Without perhaps agree- 
ing with her in this, I have acceded to her kind offers, desirous as I 
am to abandon Venice, where I have only experienced annoyance, 
deception, and reverses. I long to revisit the noble German land, 
where I have seen so many happy days, and renew my intimacy with 
the venerable friends, left there. Your Highness holds the first place 
in this old, worn-out, yet not wholly chilled heart, since it is actuated 
by eternal affection and deepest gratitude. To you, therefore, illustri- 
ous signor, do I commend and confide my aflopted child, requesting 


112 


CONSUELO, 


on her behalf hospitality, protection, and favor. She will repay your 
goodness by her zeal and attention to the young baroness. In three 
months I shall come for her, and offer in her j^lace a teacher who 
may contract a more permanent engagement. 

“ Awaiting the day on which I may once more press the hand of 
one of the best of men, I presume to declare myself, with respect and 
pride, the most humble and devoted of the friends and servants of your 
Highness, chiarissima, stimatissima, illustrissima. 

XlCOLAS PORPORA. 

“ Chapel Master, Composer, and Professor of Vocal Music. 
“ Venice, the of 17—.” 

Amelia sprang up with joy on perusing this letter, while the old 
count, much affected, repeated — “Worthy Porpora! respectable man! 
excellent friend ! ” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” exclaimed the Canoness Wenceslawa, divided 
between the dread of deranging their family usages and the desire of 
displaying the duties of hospitality towards a stranger, “ we must re- 
ceive and treat her well, provided she do not become weary of us here.” 

“But, uncle, where is this precious mistress and future friend?” 
exclaimed the young baroness, without attending to her aunt’s reflec- 
tions. “Surely she will shortly be here in person. I await her with 
impatience.” 

Count Christian rang. “ Hans,” said he, “ by whom was this de- 
livered ? ” 

“ By a lady, most gracious lord and master.” 

“ Where is she ? ” exclaimed Amelia. 

“ In her post-carriage at the drawbridge.” 

“ And you have left her to perish outside, instead of introducing 
her at once ? ” 

“Yes, madam; I took the letter, but forbade the postilion to 
slacken rein or take foot out of the stirrup. I also raised the bridge 
behind me until I should have delivered the letter to my master.” 

“ But it is unpardonable, absurd, to make guests wait outside in 
such weather. Would not any one think we were in a fortress, and 
that we take every one who comes for an enemy? Speed away then, 
Hans.” 

Hans remained motionless as a statue. His eyes alone expressed 
regret that he could not obey the wishes of his young mistress; but 
a cannon-ball whizzing past his ear would not have deranged by a 
hair’s-breadth the impassive attitude with which he awaited the sov- 
ereign orders of his old master. 

“ The faithful Hans, my child,” said the baron slowly, “ knows 
nothing but his duty and the word of command. Now then, Hans, 
open the gates and lower the bridge. Let every one light torches, 
and bid the stranger welcome.” 

Hans evinced no surprise in being ordered to usher the unknown 
into a house where the nearest and best friends were only admitted 
after tedious precautions. The canoness proceeded to give directions 
for supper. Amelia would have set out for the drawbridge; but her 
uncle, holding himself bound in honor to meet his guest tliere, offered 
his arm to his niece, and the impatient baroness was obliged to pro- 
ceed majestically to the castle gate, where the wandering fugitive 
Consuelo had already alighted. 


C O N S U E L O. 


113 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

During the three months that had elapsed since the Baroness 
Amelia had taken it into her head to have a companion, less to in- 
struct her than to solace her weariness, she had in fancy pictured to 
herself a hundred times the form and features of her future friend. 
Aware of Porpora’s crusty humor, she feared he would send some 
severe and pedantic governess. She had therefore secretly written to 
him to say (as if her desires were not law to her doting relatives,) that 
she would leceive no one past twenty-five. On reading Porpora’s 
answer she was so transported with joy that she forthwith sketched 
in imagination a complete portrait of the young musician — the adopt- 
ed child of the professor, young, and a Venetian — that is to say, in 
Aitjelia’s eyes, made expressly for herself, and after her own image. 

She was somewhat disconcerted, therefore when, instead of the 
blooming, saucy girl that lier fancy had drawn, she belield a pale, mel- 
ancholy, and embarrassed young person ; for, in addition to the pro- 
found grief with which her poor heart was overwhelmed, and the fa- 
tigue of a long and rapid journey, a fearful and almost fatal impres- 
sion had been made on Consuelo’s mind by the vast pine forest tossed 
by the tempest, the dark night illuminated at intervals by livid flashes 
of lightning, and, above all, by the aspect of this grim castle, to which 
the bowlings of the baron’s kennel and the light of the torches borne 
by the servants, lent a strange and ghastly effect. What a contrast 
with thQ firmamento lucido of Marcello — the harmonious silence of the 
nights at Venice — the confiding liberty of her former life, passed in the 
bosom of love and joyous poesy! When the carriage had slowly 
passed over the drawbridge, which sounded hollow under the horses’ 
feet, and the portcullis fell with a startling clang, it seemed to her as 
if she had entered the portals of the Inferno” of Dante; and, seized 
with terror, she recommended her soul to God. 

Her countenance therefore showed the symptoms of extreme agita- 
tion when she presented herself before her hosts; and the aspect of 
Count Christian, his tall, wasted figure, worn at once by age and vex- 
ation, and dressed in his ancient costume, completed lier dismay. 
She imagined she beheld the spectre of some ancient nobleman of 
the middle ages; and looking upon everything that surrounded her 
as a dream, she drew back, uttering an exclamation of terror. 

The old count, attributing her hesitation and paleness to the jolting 
of the carriage and the fatigue of the journey, offered his arm to as- 
sist her in mounting the steps, endeavoring at the same time to utter 
some kind and polite expressions. But the worthy man, on whom 
Nature had bestowed a cold and reserved exterior, had become, dur- 
ing so long a period of absolute retirement, such a stranger to the 
usages and conventional courtesies of the world, that this timidity was 
redoubled ; and under a grave and severe aspect he concealed the hes- 
itation and confusion of a child. The obligation which he considered 
liiniself under to speak Italian, a language which he had formerly 
known tolerably well, but which he had almost forgotten, only added 
to his embarrassment; aiid he could merely stammer out a few words, 
which Consuelo heard with difficulty, and which she took for the un- 
known and mysterious language of the .Shades. 

Amelia, who had intended to throw herself upon Consuelo’s neck, 

7 


114 


C (J N S U E L O. 


and at once appropriate lier to herself, had nothin" to say — such is 
the reserve imparted, as if by contagion, even to the boldest natures, 
when the timidity of others seems to slum their advances. 

Consnelo was introduced into the great hall where they had supped. 
The count, divided between the wish to do her honor and the fear of 
letting her see his son while buried in his morbid sleep, paused and 
hesitated; and Consnelo, trembling and feeling her knees give way 
under her, sank into the nearest seat. 

“ Uncle,” said Amelia, seeing tlie embarrassment of the count, “ I 
think it would be better to receive the signora here. “ It is warmer 
than in the great saloon, and she must be frozen by the wintry wind 
of our mountains. I am grieved to see her so overcome with fatigue, 
and I am sure that she requires a good supper and a sound sleep much 
more than our ceremonies. Is it not true, my dear signora? ” added 
she, gaining courage enough to press gently with her plump and pret- 
ty fingers the powerless arm of Consnelo. 

Her lively voice, and the German accent with which she pronounced 
her Italian, reassured Consuelo. She raised her eyes to the charming 
countenance of the young baroness, and, looks once exchanged, re- 
serve and timidity were alike banished. The traveller understood 
immediately that this was her pupil, and that this enchanting face at 
least was not that of a spectre. She giatefully received all the atten- 
tions offered her by Amelia, approached the fire, allowed her cloak to 
be taken off, accepted the offer of supper, although she was not the 
least hungry; and, more and more reassured by the kindness of her 
young hostess, she found at length the facidties of seeing, hearing, 
and replying. 

Whilst the domestics served supper, the conversation naturally 
turned on Porpora, and Consuelo was delighted to hear the old count 
^peak of him as his friend, his equal — almost as his superior. Then 
they talked of Consuelq’s journey, the route by which she had come, 
and the storm which must have terrified her. We are accustomed 
at Venice,” replied Consuelo, “ to tempests stili more sudden and 
perilous; for in our gondolas, in passing from one part of the city to 
another, we are often threatened with shipwreck even at our very 
thresholds. The water which serves us instead of paved streets, 
swells and foams like the waves of the sea. dashing our frail barks 
with such violence against the walls, that they are in danger of de- 
struction before we have time to land. Nevertheless, although I have 
frequently witnessed such occurrences, and am not naturally very 
timid, I was more terrified this evening than I have ever been before, 
by the fall of a huge tree, uprooted by the tempest in the mountains 
and crashing across our path. The horses reared upright, while the 
postilion in terror exclaimed — ‘It is the Tree of Misfortune ! — it is the 
Hussite which has fallen ! ’ Can you explain what that means, Sig- 
nora Baronessa f ” 

Neither the count nor Amelia attempted to reply to this question; 
they trembled while they looked at each other. “ My son was not de- 
ceived,” said the old man. “Strange! strange in truth!” 

And excited by his solicitude for Albert, he left the saloon to rejoin 
him, while Amelia, clasping her hands, murmured: “ There is magic 
here, and the devil in presence bodily.” 

These strange remarks re-awakened the superstitious feeling which 
Consuelo had experienced on entering the castle of Rudolstadt. The 
sudden paleness of Amelia, the solemn silence of the old servants in 


C 0 N S U E L O, 


115 


their red liveries — whose square bulky figures and whose lack-lustre 
eyes, which their long servitude seemed to have deprived of all sense 
and expression, appeared each the counterpart of his neighbors — the 
immense hall wainscotted with black oak, whose gloom a chandelier 
loaded with lighted candles did not suffice to dissipate; the ci-ies of 
the screech-owl, which had recommenced its flight round the castle, the 
storm being over; even the family portraits and the huge heads of 
stags and boars carved in relief on the wainscotting — all awakened 
emotions of a gloomy cast that she was unable to shake off’. The ob- 
servations of the young baroness were not very cheering. “ My dear 
signora,” said she, hastening to assist her, “ you must be pi-epared to 
meet here things strange, inexplicable, often unpleasant, sometimes 
even frightful; true scenes of romance which no one would believe if 
you related them, and on which you must pledge your honor to be 
silent forever.” 

While the baroness was thus speaking the door opened slowly, and 
the Canoness Wenceslawa, with her hump, her angular figure, and 
severe attire, the effect of which was heightened by the decorations 
of her order which she never laid aside, entered the apartment with 
an air more affably majestic than she had ever worn since the period 
when the Empress Maria Theresa, returning from her expedition to 
Hungary, had conferred on the castle the unheard-of honor of taking 
there a glass of hippocras and an hour’s repose. She advanced to- 
wai'ds Consuelo, and after a couple of courtesies and a harangue in 
German, which she had apparently learned by heart, proceeded to 
kiss her forehead. The poor girl, cold as marble, received what she 
considered a death salute, and murmured some inaudible reply. 

When the canoness had returned to the saloon, for she saw that she 
rather frightened the stranger than otherwise, Amelia burst into 
laughter long and loud. 

“ By my faith,” said she to her companion, “ I dare swear you 
thought you saw the ghost of Queen Libussa; but calm yourself; it 
is my aunt, and the best and most tiresome of women.” 

^lardly had Consuelo recovered from this emotion when she heard 
the creaking of great Hungarian boots behind her. A heavy and 
measured step shook the floor, and a man with a face so massive, red, 
and square, that those of the servants appeared pale and aristocratic 
beside it, traversed the hall in profound silence, and went out by the 
great door which the valets respectfully opened for him. Fresh 
shuddering on Consuelo’s part, fresh laughter on Amelia’s followed. 

“ This,” said she, “ is Baron Rudolstadt, the greatest hunter, the 
most unparalleled sleeper, and the best of fathers. His nap in the 
saloon is concluded. At nine he rises from his chair, without on that 
account awaking, walks across this hall without seeiiig or hearing 
anything, retires to rest, and wakes with the dawn , alert, active, vig- 
orous as if he were still young, and bent on pursuing the chase anew 
W'ith falcon, hound, and horse.” 

Hardly had she concluded when the chaplain passed. Pie was 
stout, short, and pale as a dropsical patient. A life of meditation 
does not suit the dull Sclavonian temperament, and the good man’s 
obesity was no criterion of robust health. He made a profound bow 
to the ladies, spoke in an under tone to a servant, and disappeared in 
the track of the baron. Forthwith old Hans and another ot these 
automatons, which Consuelo could not distinguish, so closely did they 
resemble each other, t'^'ok their way to the saloon. Consuelo, unable 


CONSUELO 


116 

any longer even to appear to eat, followed them with her eyes- 
Hardly had they passed the door, when a new apparition, more strik- 
ing than all the rest, presented itself at the threshold. It was a youth 
of lofty stature and admirable proportions, but with a countenance of 
corpse-like paleness. He was attired in black from head to foot, 
while a velvet cloak trimmed with sable and held by tassels and clasps 
of gold, hung from his shoulders. Hair of ebon blackness fell in dis- 
order over his pale cheeks, which were further concealed by the curls 
of his glossy beard. He motioned away the servants who advanced 
to meet him, with an imperative gesture, before which they recoiled 
as if his gaze had fascinated them. Then he turned towards Count 
Christian, who followed him. 

“ I assure you, father,” said he, in a sweet voice and winning ac- 
cents, “ that I have never felt so calm. Something great is accom- 
plished in my destiny, and the peace of heaven has descended on our 
house.” 

“ May God grant it, my child I” exclaimed the old man, extending 
his hand to bless him. 

The youth bent his head reverently under the hand of his father; 
then raising it with a mild and sweet expression, he advanced to the 
centre of the hall, smiled faintly, while he slightly touched the hand 
which Amelia held out to him, and looked earnestly at Consuelo for 
some seconds. Struck with involuntary respect, Consuelo bowed to 
him with downcast eyes; but he did not return the salutation, and 
still continued to gaze on her. 

“ This is the young person,” said the canoness in German 
“ whom — .” But the young man interrupted her with a gesture 
which seemed to say, “ Do not speak to me— do not disturb my 
thoughts.” Then slowly turning away, without testifying either sur- 
prise or interest, he deliberately retired by the great door. 

“You must excuse him, my dear young lady,” said the canoness; 
“ he ” 

“ I beg pardon, aunt, for interrupting you,” exclaimed Amelia; 
“ but you are speaking German, which the signora does not under- 
stand.” 

“ Pardon me, dear signora,” replied Consuelo, in Italian ; “ I have 
spoken many languages in my cjuldhood, for I have travelled a good 
deal. I remember enough of German to understand it perfectly. I 
dare not yet attempt to speak it, but if you will be so good as to give 
me some lessons, I hope to regain my knowledge of it in a few days.” 

“I feel just in the same position,” replied the canoness, in Ger- 
man. “ I comprehend all the young lady says, yet I could not speak 
lier language. Since she understands me, I may tell her that I liope 
she will pardon ray nephew the rudeness of which he has been guilty 
in not saluting her, when I inform her that this young man has been 
seriously ill, and that after his fainting fit he is so weak that probably 
he did not see her. Is not this so, brother?” asked the good Wen- 
ceslawa, trembling at the falsehood she had uttered, and seeking her 
pardon in the eyes of Count Christian. 

“ My dear sister,” replied the old man, “it is generous in you to ex- 
cuse my son. The signora, I trust, will not be too much surprised on 
learning certain particulars which we shall communicate to her to- 
morrow with all the confidence which we ought to feel for a child of 
Porpora, and I hope I may soon add, a fi iend of the family.” 

It was now the hour for retiring, and the habits of the establishment 


CONSUELO. 


117 

were so uniform, that if the two young girls had remained much 
longer at table, the servants would doubtless have removed the chairs 
and extinguished the lights, just as if they had not been there. Be? 
sides, Consuelo longed to retire, and the baroness conducted her to 
the elegant and comfortable apartment which had been set apart for 
her accommodation. 

“ I should like to have an hour’s chat -with you,” said she, as soon 
as the canoness, who had done the honors of the apartment, had left 
the room. “ I long to make you acquainted with matters here, so as 
to enable you to put up with our eccentricities. But you are so tired 
that you must certainly wish, in preference, to repose. 

“Do not let that prevent you, signora,” replied Consuelo; “I am 
fatigued, it is true, but I feel so excited that I am sure I shall not close 
my eyes during the night. Therefore talk to me as much as you 
please, with this stipulation only, that it shall be in German. It will 
serve as a lesson for me; for I perceive that the Signor Count and the 
canoness as well, are not familiar with Italian.” 

“ Let us make a bargain,” said Amelia. “ You shall go to bed to 
rest yourself a little, while I throw on a dressing-gown and dismiss 
my waiting-maid. I shall then return, seat myself by your bedside, 
and speak German so long as we can keep awake. Is it agreed ? ” 

“ With all my heart,” replied Consuelo. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

“ Know, then, my dear,” said Amelia, when she had settled herself 
as aforesaid — “ but now that I think of it, I do not know your name,” 
she added, smiling. “ It is time, however, to banish all ceremony be- 
tween us; you will call me Amelia, what shall I call you — ” 

“ I have a singular name, somewhat difficult to pronounce,” replied 
Consuelo. “ The excellent Porpora, when he sent me hither, re- 
quested me to assume his name, according to tlie custom which pre- 
vails among masters towards their favorite pupils. I share this privi- 
lege, therefore, with the great Huber, surnamed Porporina; but, in 
place of Porporina, please to call me simply Nina.” 

“ Let it be Nina, then, between ourselves,” said Amelia. “ Now*, lis- 
ten, for I have a long story to tell you ; and if I do not go back a little 
into the history of the past, you will never understand what took 
place in this house to-day.” 

“ I am all attention,” replied the new Porporina. 

“ Of course my dear Nina,” said the young baroness, “you know” 
something of the history of Bohemia.” 

“Alas!^’ replied Consuelo, “as my master must have informed 
you, I am very deficient in information. I know somewhat of the 
history of music, indeed; but as to that of Bohemia or any other 
country, I know nothing.” 

“ In that case,” replied Amelia, “ I must tell you enough of it to 
render my story intelligible. Some three hundred years ago, the peo- 
ple among whom you find yourself, were great, heroic, and uncon- 
querable. They had, indeed, strange masters, and a religion which 
they did not very well understand, but which their rulers wished to 


CONSUELO, 


118 

impose by force. They were oppressed by hordes of monks while a 
cruel and abandoned king insulted their dignity, and crushed their sym- 
pathies. But a secret fury and deep-seated hatred fermented below; 
the storm broke out; the strangers were expelled; religion was re- 
formed; convents were pillaged and razed to the ground, while the 
drunken Wenceslas was cast into prison, and deprived of his crown. 
The signal of the revolt had been the execution of John Huss and 
Jerome of Prague, two wise and courageous Bohemians, who wished 
to examine and throw light upon the mysteries of Catholici^, and 
whom a council cited, condemned, and burned, after having promised 
them safe conduct and freedom of discussion. This infamous treason 
was so grating to national honor, that a bloody war ravaged Bohemia, 
and a large portion of Germany, for many years. This exterminating 
war was called the war of the Hussites. Innumerable and dreadful 
crimes were committed on both sides. The manners of the times 
were fierce and cruel over the whole earth. Party spirit and religious 
fanaticism rendered them still more dreadful ; and Bohemia was the 
terror of Europe. I shall not shock your imagination, already unfa- 
vorably impressed by the appearance of this savage country, by recit- 
ing the horrible scenes wliich then took place. On one side, it was 
nothing but murder, burnings, destructions; churches profaned, and 
monks and nuns mutilated, hung, and thrown into boiling pitch. On 
the other side, villages were destroyed, whole districts desolated, trea- 
sons, falsehoods, cruelties, abounded on every side. Hussites were cast 
by thousands into the mines, filling abysses with their dead bodies, 
and strewing the earth with their own bones and those of their ene- 
mies. These terrible Hussites were for a long time invincible ; even 
yet their name is not mentioned without terror ; and yet their patri- 
otism, their intrepid constancy and incredible exploits, have be- 
queathed to us a secret feeling of pride and admiration, which young 
minds, such as mine, find it somewhat difficult to conceal.” 

“ And why conceal it ? ” asked Consuelo, simply. 

“ It is because Bohemia has fallen back, after many struggles, under 
the yoke of slavery. Bohemia is no more, my poor Nina. Our mas- 
ters were well aware that the religious liberty of our country was 
also its political freedom ; therefore they have stifled both.” 

“ See,” replied Consuelo, “ how ignorant lam! I never heard of 
these things before, and I did not dream that men could be so un- 
happy and so wicked.” 

“ A hundred years after John Huss, another wise man, a new sec- 
tarian, a poor monk called Martin Luther, sprang up to awaken the 
national spirit, and to inspire Bohemia, and all the independent pro- 
vinces of Germany, wjth hatred of a foreign yoke and revolt against 
popedom. The most powerful kings remained catholics, not so much 
for love of religion, as for love of absolute power. Austria united with 
them in order to overwhelm us, and a new war, called the Thirty Years’ 
War, came to shake and destroy our national independence. From 
the commencement of this war, Bohemia was the prey of the strong- 
est; Austria treated us as conquered; took from us our faith, our 
liberty, our language, and even our name. Our fathers resisted cour- 
ageously, but the imperial yoke has weighed more and more heavily 
upon us. For the last hundred and twenty years, our nobility, ruined 
and decimated by exactions, wars, and torments, have been forced to 
expatriate themselves, or turn renegades by abjuring their origin, 
Germanising their names (pay attention to this), and renouncing the 


C O N a U E L o. 


119 

liberty of professing their religious opinions. They have burned our 
books, destroyed our schools — in a word, made us Austrians. We are 
but a province of the empire, and you hear German spoken in a 
Sclavonic state; that is saying enough.” 

“ And you now suffer and blush for this slavery ? I understand you, 
and I already hate Austria with all my heart.” 

“ Oh ! speak low,” exclaimed the young baroness. “ No one can, 
without danger, speak thus under the black sky of Bohemia; and in 
this castle there is but one person, my dear Nina, who would have the 
boldness or the folly to say what you have just said; that is my cous- 
in Albert.” 

“ Is this, then, the cause of the sorrow which is imprinted on his 
countenance ? 1 felt an involuntary sensation of respect on lookimr 
at him.” 

“ Ah, ray fair lioness of St. Mark,” said Amelia, surprised at the 
generous animation which suddenly lighted up the pale features 
of her companion ; “ you take matters too seriously. I fear that in a 
few days my poor cousin will inspire you rather with pity than with 
respect.” 

“ The one need not prevent the other,” replied Consuelo, “ but ex- 
plain yourself, my dear baroness.” 

“ Listen,” said Amelia; “ we are a strictly Catholic family, faithful 
to church and state. — We bear a Saxon name, and our ancestors, on 
the Saxon side, were always rigidly orthodox. Should my aunt, the 
canoness, some day undertake to relate, unhappily for you, the ser- 
vices which the counts and German barons have rendered to the holy 
cause, you will find that, according to her, there is not the slightest 
stain of heresy on our escutcheon. Even when Saxony was protest- 
ant, the Rudolstadts preferred to abandon their Protestant electors, 
rather than the communion of the Romish church. But my aunt 
takes care never to dilate on these things in presence of Count Albert; 
if it were not for that, you should hear the most astonishing things 
that ever human ears have listened to.” 

“ You excite my curiosity without gratifying it. I understand this 
much, that I should not appear before your noble relatives, to share 
your sympathy and that of Count Albert for old Bohemia. You may 
trust to my pmdence, dear baroness; besides, I belong to a Catholic 
country, and the respect which I entertain for my religion, as well as 
that which I owe your family, would ensure my silence on every occa- 
sion.” 

“ It will be wise ; for I warn you once again that we are terribly 
rigid upon that point. As to myself, dear Nina, I am a better compound 
-^neither Protestant nor Catholic. I w'as educated by nuns, whose 
sprayers and paternosters wearied me. The same weariness pursues 
me here, and my aunt Wenceslawa, in her own person, represents the 
pedantry and superstition of a whole community. But I am too 
much imbued with the spirit of the age, to throw myself, through 
contradiction, into the not less presumptuous controversies of the 
Lutherans: as for the Hussites, their history is so ancient that I have 
no more relish for it than for the glory of the Greeks and Romans. 
The French way of thinking is to my mind; and I do not believe 
there can be any other reason, philosophy, or civilization, than that 
which is practised in charming and delightful France, the writings of 
which I sometimes have a peep at in secret, and whose liberty, hap- 
piness, and pleasures, I behold from a distance, as in a dream, through 
the bars of my prison.” 


120 


C O N 8 U E L O. 


“You each moment surprise me more,” said Consuelo, innocently. 
“How does it come that just now you appeared full of heroism, in 
recalling the exploits of your ancient Bohemians? I believed you ? 
Bohemian, and somewhat of a heretic.” 

“ I am more than heretic, and more than Bohemian,” replied 
Amelia, laughing; “ I am the least thing in life incredulous altogeth- 
er; I hate and denounce every kind of despotism, spiritual or tem- 
poral; in particular I protest against Austria, which of all old duen- 
nas is the most wrong-headed and devout.” 

“And is Count Albert likewise incredulous? Is he also imbued 
with French principles ? In that case, you should suit each other 
wonderfully?” 

“ Oh, we are the farthest in the world from suiting each other, and 
now, after all these necessary preambles, is the proper time to speak 
of him.” 

“ Count Christian, my uncle, was childless by his first wife. Mar- 
ried again at the age of forty, he had five girls, who as well as their 
mother all died young, stricken with the same malady — a continual 
pain, and a species of slow brain fever. This second wife was of pure 
Bohemian blood, and had besides great beauty and intelligence. I 
did not know her. You will see her portrait in the grand saloon, 
where she appears dressed in a bodice of precious stones and scarlet 
mantle. Albert resembles her wonderfully. He is the sixth and last 
of her children, the only one who has attained the age of thirty; and 
this not without difficulty; for without apparently being ill, he has 
experienced rude shocks and strange symptoms of disease of the 
brain, which still cause fear and dread ^ regards his life. Between 
ourselves, I do not think that he wilLiong outlive this fatal period 
which his mother could not escape.t/Although born of a father al- 
ready advanced in years, Albert is gifted with a strong constitution, 
but, as he himself says, the malady is in his soul, and has ever been 
increasing. From his earliest infancy, his mind was filled with 
strange and superstitious notions. When he was four years old, he 
frequently fancied he saw his mother beside his cradle, although she 
was dead, and he had seen her buried. In the night he used to awake 
and converse with her, which terrified ray aunt Wenceslawa so much 
that she always made several women sleep in his chamber near the 
child, whilst the chaplain used I do not know how much holy water, 
and said masses by the dozen, to oblige the spectre to keep quiet. 
But it was of no avail, for the child, although he had not spoken of 
his apparitions for a long time, declared one day in confidence to his 
nurse, that he still saw his own dear mother; but he would not tell, 
because Mr. Chaplain had said wicked words in the chamber to pre- 
vent her coming back. 

“ He was a silent and serious child. They tried to amuse him ; 
they overwhelmed him with toys and playthings, but these only 
served for a long time to make him more sad. At last they resolved 
not to oppose the taste which he displayed for study, and in effect this 
passion being satisfied, imparted more animation to him, but only 
served to change his calm and languishing melancholy into a strange 
excitpient, mingled with paroxysms of grief, the cause of which it 
was impossible to foresee or avert. For /example, when he saw the 
poor, he melted into tears, stripped him^lf of his little weal .h, even 
reproaching himself that he had not more to give. If he saw a child 
beaten, or a peasant ill-used, he became so indignant that he would 


C O N S U E L O, 


121 


swoon away, or fall into convulsions for hours together. All this dis- 
played a noble disposition and a generous heart; but the best quali- 
ties, pushed to extremes, become defective or absurd. Keason was 
not developed in young Albert in proportion to feeling and imagina- 
tion. The study of history excited without enlightening him. When 
he learned the crimes and injustice of men, he felt an emotion like 
that of the barbarian monarch, who, listening to the history of Christ’s 
passion and death, exclaimed while he brandished his weapon, ‘Ah! 
had I been there, 1 should have cut the wicked Jews into a thousand 
pieces 1 ’ 

“ Albert could not deal with man as they have been and are. He 
thought Heaven unjust in not having created them all kind and com- 
passionate like himself; he did not perceive that from an excess of 
tenderness and virtue, he was on the point of becoming impious and 
misanthropic. He did not understand what he felt, and at eighteen 
was as unfit to live among men, and hold the place which his position 
demanded in society, as he was at six months old. If any person ex- 
pressed in his presence a selfish thought, such as our poor world 
abounds with, and without which it could not exist, regardless of the 
rank of the person, or the feelings of the family towards him, he dis- 
played immediately an invincible dislike to him, and nothing could in- 
duce him to make the least advance. BLe chose his society from 
among the most humble, and those mosCih disfavor with fortune and 
even nature. In the plays of his childhood he only amused himself 
with the children of the poor, and especially with those whose stu- 
pidity or infirmities had inspired all others with disgust or weariness. 
This strange inclination, as you will soon perceive, had not abandoned 
him. 

“ As in the midst of these eccentricities he displayed much intelli- 
gence, a good memory, and a taste for fine arts, and his father and 
his good aunt Wenceslawa, who tenderly cherished him, had no cause 
to blush for him in society. They ascribed his peculiarities to his 
rustic habits; and when he was inclined to go too far, they took care 
to hide them under some pretext or other from those who might be 
offended by them. But in spite of his admirable qualities and happy 
dispositions, the count and the canoness saw with terror this inde- 
pendent, and in many respects insensible nature, reject mor 
more the laws of polite society and the amenities and usages 
world.” 

“ But as far as you have gone,’’ interrupted Consuelo, “ I see noth- 
ing of the unreasonableness of which you speak.” 

“ Oh,” replied Amelia, “ that is because you are yourself, so far as I 
can see, of an open and generous disposition. But perhaps you are 
tired of my chatter, and would wish to sleep ? ” 

“ Not at all, my dear Baroness,” replied Consuelo. “ I entreat you 
to continue.” 

Amelia resumed her narrative in these words. 


122 


C O N S U E L O, 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

“You say, dear Nina, that hitherto you discover nothing extrava- 
gant in the actions or manner of my poor cousin. I am about to give 
you better proofs of it. My uncle and aunt are without doubt the 
best Christians aud the most charitable souls in the world. They 
liberally dispense alms to all around them, and it would be impossible 
to display less pomp or pride in the use of riches than do these wor- 
thy relatives of mine. Well„my cousin made the discovery that their 
manner of living was altogether opposed to the spirit of the Gospel. 
He wished that, after tfe example of the early Christians, they 
should sell all they had, and become beggars, after having distributed 
the proceeds among the poor. If, restrained by the respect and love 
which he bore them, he did not exactly use words to this effect, he 
showed plainly what he thought, in bitterly deploring the lot of the 
poor, who are only born to toil and suffer, whilst the rich live in lux- 
ury and idleness. When he had given away in charity all his pocket- 
money, it was in his estimation but as a drop of water in the sea, and 
he demanded yet larger sums, which they dared not refuse him, and 
which flowed through his hands as water. He has given so much 
that you will no longer see a poor person in all the country which 
surrounds us, and I must add that we find our position nothing the 
better for it; inasmuch as the wants and demands of the lower orders 
increase in proportion to the concessions made to them, and our good 
peasants, formerly so mild and humble, begin to give themselves airs, 
thanks to the prodigality and fine speeches of their young master. If 
W'e had not the power of the imperial government to rely upon, 
which affords us protection on one hand, while it oppresses us on the 
Other, I believe that, more especially since the succession of the Em- 
peror Charles, our estates and castles might have been pillaged twen- 
ty times over by the bands of war-famished peasants which the inex- 
haustible benevolence of Albert, celebrated for thirty leagues round, 
has brought upon our backs. 

“ When Count Christian attempted to remonstrate with young Al- 
bert, telling him that to give all in one day was to deprive us of the 
means of giving any the next, ‘ Why, my beloved father,’ he replied, 
‘ have we not a roof to shelter us which will last longer than ourselves, 
whilst thousands of unfortunates have only the cold and inclement 
sky above their heads? Have'w'e not each more clothes than would 
suffice for one of these ragged and shivering families? Do I not see 
daily upon our table more meats and good Hungarian wine than 
would suffice to refresh and comfort these poor beggars, exhausted 
with fatigue and hunger? Have we a right to refuse when we have 
so much more than we require? Are we even permitted to use what 
is necessary whilst others are in want? Has the law of Christ 
changed ? ’ 

“What reply could the count, the canoness and the chaplain, who 
had educated this young man in the austere principles of religion, 
make to these fine words? They were accordingly embarrassed when 
they found him take matters thus literally, and hold no terms with 
those existing arrangements on which, as it appears to me, is founded 
the whole structure of society. 

“ When these affectionate and sensible parents perceived that he 


CONSUELO 


123 


was in full train to dissipate his patrimony within a few years, and to 
get himself immured in a piison, as a rebel to the holy church and 
holy empire, they at last adopted, but not without much pain, the de- 
vice of sending him to travel, hoping that when he should come to 
mix with men, and to observe the fundamental laws, which are nearly 
identical in every part of the civilized world, he w’ould become habit- 
uated to live like other people^-'They committed him therefore to the 
charge of a crafty Jesuit, a man of the world, and a man of intellect, 
if ever there was one, who comprehended his part at half a word, and 
conscientiously undertook to perform all that they dared , not ask of 
him in direct words. To speak plainly it was judged necessary to 
corrupt and tame his wild spirit, and to fashion it to the yoke of social 
life, by infusing into it, drop by drop, the fascinating, yet necessary, 
poisons of ambition, of vanity, of indifference to all matters, religious, 
moral, or political. Do not frown so, as you listen to me, my dear 
Porporina. My w'orthy uncle is a good and simple-minded person, 
who has always, from his youth upwards, received all these things 
precisely as they were set before his mind, and who has had the good 
fortune through his whole life to reconcile toleration with religion, 
and that without hypocrisy or over-deep scrutiny. In a century and 
a state of society like ours, in which but one such man as Albert is 
found among millions such as we, he who keeps pace with the world 
and its progress is the wise man ; he who would recede two thousand 
years into the past, merely scandalises his fellows, and makes not a 
single convert. 

“ For eight successive years Albert travelled in Italy, France, Eng- 
land, Prussia, Poland, Eussia, nay, even among the Turks. He re- 
turned home through Hungary, Southern Germany, and Bavaria. 
He conducted himself with perfect prudence during his travels, not 
spending anything above the liberal allowance which his relatives had 
assigned to him, writing them very gentle and affectionate letters, in 
which he never alluded to anything beyond the things which had ac- 
tually fallen under his eyes, and without making any deep observa- 
tions on any matter whatever, or giving his tutor reason to reproach 
him either with offence or ingratitude. 

“ On his return hither, at the beginning of the last year, after the 
first embraces of his family, he withdrew himself, they say, entered 
the room in which his mother died, remained shut up there for sev- 
eral hours, and then came forth alone, all pale and haggard, to wander 
alone on the mountain. 

“ During this time the abbe spoke in confidence with the Canoness 
Wenceslawa, and with the chaplain, who had required of him a full 
and sincere relation of the condition, moral and physical, of the 
young count. ‘ Count Albert,’ said he to them, ‘ whether he has 
been chatjged in character in the course of his travels, or whether I 
had formed a false impression of him from the description which you 
gave me of his childhood, has behaved towards me from the first 
hour of our acquaintance precisely as you see him to-day— gentle, 
calm, long-suffering, patient, and exquisitely polite. This excellent 
conduct on his part has never varied for a single instant, and I should 
be the most unjust of men, could I devise a'complaint of any kind 
against him. Nothing of those things which I apprehended, nothing 
of ill-regulated expenses, of rude habits, of wild declamations, of en- 
thusiastic asceticism, have occurred. He has never once asked me 
to allow him to administer himself the little fortune with which you 


124 


C O N S U E L O. 


charged me for his uses, and never once expressed the slightest dissat* 
isfaction at iny application of it. It is true that I always took care to 
anticipate his wishes, and if a beggar approached the carriage I made 
haste to send him away perfectly satisfied, almost before he had time 
to stretch out his hand. This mode of acting appears to have suc- 
ceeded perfectly, and as his lordship was never again saddened by the 
contemplation of misery, his ancient prejudices on that subject ap- 
parently ceased to trouble him. I have never heard him scold or 
blame any person, or express an unfavorable opinion on any institu- 
tion. That ardent devotion, the very excess and extravagance of 
which alarmed you, made way for a regularity of conduct, and for 
practices entirely becoming a man of the world. He was present in 
the most brilliant courts, and participated in the noblest entertain- 
ments without manifesting either enthusiasm or disgust for anything. 
Everywhere his fine face, his handsome carriage, his unempliatic 
politeness, and the good taste which always guided his conversation, 
were subjects of remark and approbation. His morals have remained 
ever as pure as those of a perfectly well-conducted girl, without ever 
declining into prudery or bad taste. He visited theatres, nunneries, 
monuments, conversed soberly and judiciously of the fine arts. In a 
word, I cannot conceive in what respect he can have caused your 
lordship and ladyship any uneasiness, never having, for my part, seen 
a gentleman more perfectly reasonable. If there be anything ex- 
traordinary about him, it is precisely this moderation, prudence, and 
self-possession — this absence of all the excitements anil passions, such 
as I have never met in any other young man, so advantageously cir- 
cumstanced by nature, birth, and fortune. 

“ This, moreover, was but the natural confirmation of the frequent 
letters which the abbe had written to the family, but in which they 
had always apprehended some exaggeration on his part, so that they 
were, in fact, never perfectly reassured until at the moment when he 
affirmed the complete cure of my cousin, without seeming to fear that 
his conduct before the eyes of his parents would belie his asseveration. 
The abbe was overloaded with gifts and caresses, and the return of 
A.Ibert from his walk was eagerly expected. His abseivce was long, 
and when at length he returned, just as they were about to sit down 
to supper, he was so pale, and the gravity of his countenance was so 
remarkable, that all were struck by it. In the first moment of his af- 
fectionate pleasure, on his return, his features had expressed a calm 
and settled satisfaction, which had already vanished. All were aston- 
ished, and questioned the abbe in whispers concerning the change. 
He looked at Albert, and then turning with some surprise to those 
who were questioning him, in a corner of the apartment — ‘ I see noth- 
ing unusual,’ he said, ‘ in the expression of Monsieur le Comte. This 
is the calm and peaceful aspect which he has ever worn during the 
eight years that I have had the honor of accompanying him.’ 

“ Count Christian seemed content with this answer. ‘ When we 
last saw him,’ said he to his sister, ‘ he was still bedecked with all 
the florid beauty of youth, and was sometimes, alas ! fired by some 
touch of internal fear, which kindled his cheeks and fired his eyes. 
He has now returned to us emboldened by the sun of southern 
climes, a little aged, perhaps, by fatigue, and a little touched with that 
gravity which so well becomes a finished and mature man. Do you 
not think, my dear sister, that, after all, he is better so? ’ 

“ ‘ I think his expres.sion is very sad under the mask of this gravity,’ 


CONSUELO. 


125 

answered my excellent aunt, * and I have never seen a man of 
twenty-eight so phlegmatical, and so little given to conversation. He 
only replies to us in monosyllables.’ 

“ ‘ Monsieur the count has always been very sparing of his words,’ 
answered the abbe. 

“ ‘ Such was not his habit formerly,’ said the canoness, ‘ if he had 
his weeks of silence and meditation, he had likewise his days of ex- 
pansiveness, and his hours of eloquence.’ 

“ ‘ I have never seen him,’ resumed the abbe, ‘ to vary from the re- 
serve which your lordships notice in him at this moment.’ 

“ ‘ Were you then better satisfied with his demeanor when he talk- 
ed too much, and too wildly, and used expressions which made us all 
tremble?’ said Count Christian to his frightened sister; ‘ of a truth 
this is the very way with women.’ 

“ ‘ But he at least existed then,’ she replied ; ‘ now he resembles the 
inhabitant of some other sphere, who takes no interest in the affairs 
of this world.’ 

“ ‘ That is the constant and enduring character of the count,’ said 
the abbe, ‘ he is a man entirely concentrated within himself— who im- 
parts none of his impulses to any one — and who, if 1 must speak out 
exactly what I think, is very slightly affected by any impressions from 
things external. Such is the case with many cold, sensible, and reflec- 
tive persons; he is so constituted, and I am of opinion that by en- 
deavoring to excite him, the only result would be to disturb and con- 
fuse a mind disinclined to action and to every fierilous exertion.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, I could swear that this is not his true and natural character,’ 
said the canoness. 

“ ‘ I have little doubt, how'ever,’ returned the priest, ‘ that madame 
the canoness will see cause to overcome the prejudices she seems to 
have formed against so rare an advantage.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed, my sister,’ said the count, ‘I think that monsieur the 
abbe speaks very wisely. Has he not brought about, by his care and 
condescension, the result which we have so earnestly desired? Has 
he not turned aside the calamities which we dreaded? Albert gave 
us every token of turning out a prodigy, an enthusiast, a rash-headed 
visionary. He comes back to us just such as we ought to desire him 
to be, in order to command the esteem, the confidence, and the con- 
sideration of his equals.’ 

“ ‘ But as lifeless as an old volume!’ cried the canoness; ‘or per- 
haps hardened to everything or disdaining everything which does not 
answer to his hidden instincts. He does not even seem glad to see 
us, who awaited his return with such impatience.’ 

“ ‘ Monsieur le Comte was himself impatient to return,’ said the 
abbe; ‘ I saw it clearly enough, though he did not manifest it openly. 
He is by no means of a demonstrative character. Nature framed him 
of a reserved temper.’ 

On the contrary,’ she exclaimed, ‘nature framed him demonstra- 
tive. Sometimes, indeed, he was tender, sometimes he was violent, 
even to excess. He often vexed, but then again he would cast him- 
self into my arms, and I was at once disarmed.’ 

“‘ To me he has never been guilty of aught for which to make a 
reparation.’ 

“ ‘ Believe me, sister, things are much better as they now are.’ 

‘“ Alasl’ said the canoness, ‘and will he always wear that calm 
ani constrained face, which chills my very soul? ’ 


126 


C O K S U E L (). 


“‘It is the proud and noble face which becomes a man of his 
rank,’ replied the abbe. 

‘“It is a face of marble!’ cried the canoness. ‘When I look a1 
him I think I see my mother, not as 1 knew her, warm, sympathizing 
and benevolent, but as they have painted her, motionless, and icy 
cold, in her frame of black oak.’ 

“ ‘ I repeat to your ladyship, that for eight years, Count Albert ha? 
wore no other than that one habitual expression.’ 

“ ‘ Alas! and it is then eight years since be has smiled on any per- 
son ? ’ said the good aunt, unable any longer to restrain her tears. 

‘ For during two wdiole hours which I have spent in gazing on him, 
not the slightest symptom of a smile has animated his wan, set lips! 
Oh! I feel inclined to spring upon him, and clasp him to my heart, as 
of old, reproaching him with his indifference, and blaming him, as 1 
was wont, in order to see whether he will not, as he used, cling to my 
neck and sob forth his affection.’ 

“ ‘ Beware of committing any such imprudence, my dear sister,’ said 
Count Christian, compelling her to turn away her eyes from Count 
Albert, whom she still gazed at through her tears. ‘ Listen not to 
the weakness of a maternal heart. Surely we know but too well that 
an excessive sensibility has been the scourge of our beloved son’s life 
and reason. By diverting his thoughts, and removing from him all 
over-violent emotions, monsieur the abbe, in conformity with our ad- 
vice, and with the recommendations of his physicians, has succeed e<i 
in calming his agitated soul. Do not then undo all that he has doiu-. 
by yielding to 'the whims of a childish affection.’ 

“ The canoness yielded to his reasoning, and endeavored to habitu- 
ate herself to the icy exterior of Count Albert, but she could by nu 
means accustom herself to it, and she often whispered in her broth- 
er’s ear, ‘ you may say as you will, Christian, but I fear that they have 
rendered him idiotic, by treating him, not as a man, but a peevish in- 
fant.’ 

“ In the evening, when they were parting for the night, they all 
embraced. Albert received his father’s blessing with deep affection, 
and when the canoness pressed him to her bosom, he perceived that 
she was trembling, and that her voice faltered perceptibly. Then he 
began to tremble likewise, and tore himself from her arms as if a keen 
pang had shot through him. ‘You see, sister,’ whispered the count 
in her ear, ‘ he is no longer used to encounter such emotions, and 
you are only giving him pain.’ At the same time, scarcely satisfied 
with his own argument, he watched him narrowly, by no means free 
himself from emotion, in order to discover if, by his conduct toward 
the abbe, he manifested any particular predilection for that person ; 
but Albert merely bowled to his tutor, with distant and reserved po- 
liteness. 

“ ‘ My son, said the count, ‘ I believe that I have fulfilled your in- 
tentions, and satisfied the desires of your heart, in requesting mon- 
sieur the abbe not to leave you, as he had expressed some idea of do- 
ing, and in prevailing on him to remain wdth us as long as possible. 
I would not have your happiness at rejoining our family embittered 
to you by a single regret, and I trust that your worthy friend will as- 
sist us in procuring you this unmingled happiness.’ 

“Albert replied only by a low bow, and at the same moment 
strange smile quivered across his lips. 

“ ‘ Alas ! ’ cried the canoness, as he withdrew, ‘ is that the fashipi, 
of his smile now ? ’ 


C O N S U E L O. 


127 


CHAPTER XXyif. 

During Albert’s absence, the count and the canoness had formed 
innumerable projects for the future welfare of their dear child, among 
which that of marrying him occupied a prominent place. With his 
fine face, his noble birth, and his fortune still unimpaired, Albert 
could have aspired to a connection with the noblest families in the 
kingdom. But in case his indolence, and shy, retiring disposition 
should make him unwilling to bring himself forward, and push his 
fortune in the world, they kept in reserve for him a young person of 
equally high birth with himself, since she was his cousin-germain, and 
bore the same name; she was not so rich, indeed, but was young, 
handsome, and an only daughter. This young person was Amelia, 
baroness of Rudolstadt, your humble servant and new friend. 

“‘She,’ said they, when conversing together, by the fireside, ‘has 
as yet seen nobody. She cannot hope for a better match; and as to 
the eccentricities of her cousin, the old associations of their child- 
hood, the ties of relationship, and a few months’ intimacy with us, 
will go far to overcome her repugnance to them, and bring her round 
to tolerate, were it only for the sake of family feeling, what might be 
unendurable to a stranger.’ They were sure of the consent of my 
father, whenever had any will but that of his elder brother and his 
sister Wenceslawa; and who, to say the truth,' has never had a will 
of his own. 

“ W'’hen, after a fortnight’s careful observation of his manners, the 
constant melancholy and reserve, which appeared to be the confirmed 
diaracter of my cousin, became evident to them, my uncle and aunt 
concluded, that the last scion of their race was not destined to win 
renown by great or noble deeds. He displayed no inclination for a 
lu'ight career in arms, diplomacy, or civil atfairs. To every proposal 
he mildly replied that he should obey the wishes of his relations, but 
that for his own part he desired neither luxury nor glory. After all, 
this indolent disposition was but an exaggerated copy t)f his father’s, 
a man of such calm and easy temperament, that Ins imperturbability 
borders on apathy, and his modesty is a kind of self-denial. What 
gives to my uncle’s character a tone which is wanting in his son’s, is 
ids strong sense, devoid of pride, of the duties he owes to society. 
Albert seemed formerly to understand domestic duties, but public ones, 
as they were regarded by others, concerned him no more than in his 
childhood. His father and mine had followed the career of arms 
m\der Montecuculli against Turenne. They had borne with them 
into the war a kind of religious enthusiasm, inspired by the Emperor. 
A blind obedience to their superiors was considered the duty of their 
time. This more enlightened age, however, strips the monaich of 
his false halo, and the rising generation believe no more in the divine 
right of the crown than in that of the tiara. When my uncle en- 
deavored to stir up in his son’s bosom the flame of ancient chivalric 
ardor, he soon perceived that his arguments had no meaning for a 
reasotier who looked on such things with contempt. 

“ ‘ Sjnee it is thus,’ my uncle observed to my aunt, ‘ we will not 
thwart him. Let us not counteract this melancholy remedy, which 
has at least restored to us a passionless, in place of an impetuous man. 
Let his life, in accordance with his desire, be tranquil, and he may be- 


128 


CONSUELO. 


come studious, and philosophic as were many of his ancestors, an ar- 
dent lover of the chase like our brother Frederick, or a just and be 
neficent master, as we ourselves try to be. Let him lead from hence- 
forward the untroubled and inoffensive life of an old man; he will be 
the first Rudolstadt whose life shall have known no youth. But as he 
must not be the last of his race, let us marry him, so that the heir of 
our name may fill up this blank in the gloiy of our house. Who 
knows but it may be the will of Providence that the generous bh)od 
of his ancestors now sleeps in his veins only to reawaken with a fresh 
impulse in those of his descendants? ’ 

‘‘So it was decided that they should break the ice on this delicate 
subject to my cousin Albert. 

“They at first approached it gently; but as they found this propo- 
sal quite as unpalatable as all previous ones had been, it became nec- 
essary to reason seriously with him. He pleaded bashfulness, timid- 
ity, and awkwardness in female society. 

“ ‘Certainly,’ said my aunt, ‘ in my young days I would have con- 
sidered a lover so grave as Albert more repulsive than otherwise; and 
I would not have exchanged my hump for his conversation.’ 

“ ‘We must then,’ said my uncle, ‘ fall back upon our last resource, 
and persuade him to marry Amelia. He has known her from infancy, 
looks upon her as a sister, and will be less timid with her; and, as to 
firmness of character she unites animation and cheerfulness, she will 
by her good-humor dissipate those gloomy moods into which he so fre- 
quently relapses.’ 

“Albert did not condemn this project, and, without openly saying 
so, consented to see and become acquainted with me. It was agreed 
that I should not be informed of the plan, in order to save me the 
mortification of being rejected, which was always possible on his part. 
They wrote to my father, and as soon as they had secured his consent, 
they took steps to obtain the dispensation from the Pope which our 
consanguinity rendered necessary. At the same time my father took 
me from the convent, and one fine morning we arrived at the Castle 
of the Giants — I very well pleased to breathe the fresh air, and impa- 
tient to see my betrothed; my good father full of hope, and fancying 
that he had ingeniously concealed from me a project which he had un- 
consciously betrayed in every sentence he uttered in the course of the 
journey. 

“ The first thing that struck me in Albert was his fine figure and 
noble air. I confess, dear Nina, that my heart beat almost audibly 
when he kissed my hand, and that for some days I was charmed by 
his look, and delighted by the most trifling word that felj from his 
lips. His serious, thoughtful manner was not displeasing to me. 
He seemed to feel no constraint in my society; on the contrary, he 
was unreserved as in the days of childhood; and when, from a dread 
of failing in politeness, he wished to restrain his attention, our parents 
urged him to continue his ancient familiarity with jue. My cheerful- 
ness sometimes caused him to smile involuntarily, and my good aunt, 
transported with joy, attiibuted to me the honor of this improvement 
which she believed would be permanent. At length he came to treat 
me with the mildness and «entleness one displays towards a child, and 
I was content— satisfied that he would shortly pay more attention to 
my little animated countenance, and to the handsome dresses by 
which 1 studied to please him. But I had soon the mortification to 
discover that he cared little for the one, and that he did not even ap‘ 


C 0 N S U E L O. 


129 

pear to see the other. One day my good aunt wished to direct his at- 
tention to a beautiful blue dress, which suited my figure admirably. 
Would you believe it? — he declared its color to be a bright red! His 
tutor, the abbe, who had honied compliments ever ready on his lips, 
and who wished to give his pupil a lesson in gallantry, insinuated that 
he could easily guess why Count Albert could not distinguish the 
color of my dress. Here was a capital opportunity for Albert to ad- 
dress to me some flattering remarks on the rose of ray cheeks or the 
golden hue of my hair. He contented himself, however, with drily 
telling the abbe that he was as capable of distinguishing colors as he 
was, and with repeating his assertion that my robe was red as blood. 
I do not know why this rudeness of manner and eccentricity of ex- 
pression made me shudder. I looked at Albert, and his glance terri- 
fied me. From that day I began to fear him more than 1 loved him. 
In a short time 1 ceased to love him at all, and now I neither love nor 
fear him: I merely pity him. You will by degrees understand why. 

“ The next day we w'ere to go to Tauss,the nearest village, to make 
some purchases. I had promised myself much pleasure from this ex- 
cursion, as Albert was to accompany me on horseback. When ready 
to set out, I of course expected that he would offer me his arm. The 
carriages were in the court, but he did not make his appearance, al- 
though his servant said that he had knocked at his door at the usual 
hour. They sent again to see if he were getting ready. Albert al- 
ways dressed by himself, and never permitted a servant to enter his 
chamber until he had quitted it. They knocked in vain; there was 
no reply. His father, becoming uneasy at this continued silence, went 
himself to the room, but he could neither open the door, which was 
bolted inside, nor obtain a reply to his questions. They began to be 
frightened, when the abbe observed in his usual placid manner, that 
Count Albert was subject to long fits of sleep, which might almost bo 
termed trances, and if suddenly awakened, he was agitated, and ap- 
parently suffered for many days, as from a shock. ‘ But that is a dis- 
ease,’ said the canoness, anxiously. , 

‘ I do not think so,’ said the abbe. ‘ He has never complained of 
anything. The physicians whom I brought to see him when he lay 
in this state, found no feverish symptoms, and attributed his condition 
to excess of application to study; and they earnestly advised that this 
apparently necessary repose and entire forgetfulness should not be 
counteracted by any mode of treatment.’ 

“ ‘ And is it frequent? ’ asked my uncle. 

“ * I have observed it only five or six times during eight years; and 
not having annoyed him by my attentions, I have never found any 
unpleasant consequences.’ 

‘“And do these last long?’ I demanded in my turn, very impa- 
tiently. 

“ ‘ Longer or shorter, according to the want of rest which precedes 
or occasions these attacks; but no one can know, for the count either 
does not himself recollect the cause, or does not wish to tell it. He 
is extremely studious, and conceals it with unusual modesty.’ 

“ ‘ He is very learned then ? ’ I replied. 

“ ‘ Extremely learned.’ 

‘“And he never displays it? ’ 

“ ‘ He makes a secret of it — nay, does not himself suspect it.’ 

Of what use is it, in that case? ’ 

“ ‘ Genius is like beauty,’ replied this Jesuit courtier, casting a soft 
8 


130 


CONSUELO, 


iook upon me; ‘both are favors of Heaven which occasion neither 
pride nor agitation to those who enjoy them.’ 

“1 understood the lesson, and only felt the more annoyed, as you 
may suppose. They resolved to defer the drive until my cousin should 
awake; but when at the end of two hours I saw that he did not stir, 
I laid aside my rich riding-dress, and set myself to my etnbrt)idery, 
not without spoiling a good deal of silk and missing many stitches. 
I was indignant at the neglect of Albert, who over his books in the 
evening had forgotten his promised ride with me, and who had now 
left me to wait, in no very pleasant humor, while he quietly enjoyed 
his sleep. The day wore on, and we were obliged to give up our pro- 
posed excursion. My father, confiding in the assurance of the abbe, 
took his gun, and strolled out to kill a few hares. My aunt, wdio had 
less faith in the good man’s opinion, went up stairs more than twen- 
ty times to listen at her nephew’s door, but without being able to hear 
the faijitest breathing. The poor woman was in an agony of distress. 
As for my uncle, he took a book of devotion, to try its elit'ect in calm- 
ing his inquietude, and began to read in a corner of the saloon with 
a resignation so provoking that it half tempted me to leap out of the 
window with chagrin. At length towards evening, my aunt, over- 
joyed, came in to inform us that she had heard Albert rise and dress 
himself. The abbe advised us to appear neither surprised nor un- 
easy, not to ask the count any questions, and to endeavor to divert 
his mind and his thoughts, if he evinced any signs of mortification at 
what had occurred. 

“ But if my cousin be not ill, then he is mad!” exclaimed I, with 
some degree of irritation. 

“ I observed my uncle change countenance at this harsh expression, 
and I was struck with sudden remorse. But when Albert entered 
without apologizing to any one, and without even appearing to be 
aware of our disappointment, I confess 1 was excessively piqued and 
gave him a A^ery cold reception, of which, however, absorbed as he 
was in thought, he took not the slightest notice. 

“ In the evening, my father fancied that a little music would raise 
his spirits. I had not yet sung before Albert, as my harp had only ar- 
rived the preceding evening. I must not, my scientific Porporina, 
boast of my musical acquirements before you; but you will admit that 
I have a good voice, and do not want natural taste. I allowed them to 
press me, for I had at the moment more inclination to cry than to 
sing, but Albert offered not a word to draw me out. At last I yield- 
ed, but I sang badly, and Albert, as if 1 had tortured his ears, had the 
rudeness to leave the room after I had gone through a few bars. I 
was compelled to summon all my pride to my assistance to prevent me 
from bursting into teai-s, and to enable me to finish the air without 
breaking the strings of my harp. My aunt followed her nephew: iny 
father was asleep; my uncle waited near the door till his sister should 
return, to tell him something of his son. The abbe alone remained to 
pay me compliments, which irritated me yet more than the indiffer- 
ence of the others. ‘ It seems,’ said I to him, ‘ that my cousin does 
not like music.’ 

“ ‘ On the contrary, he likes it very much,’ replied he, ‘ but it is ac- 
cording ’ 

“ ‘ According to the manner in which one performs,’ said I, inter- 
rupting him. 

“‘Yes,’ replied he, in no wise disconcerted, ‘and to the state of 


C O N S IT E L O. 


181 . 

his mind. Sometimes music does him good, sometimes harm. You 
have, I am certain, agitated him so mimh that he feared he should 
not be able to restrain his emotion. This retreat is more flattering 
to you than the most elaborate praise.’ 

“ The compliments of this Jesuit had in them something so sinister 
and sarcastic that it made me detest him. But I was soon freed from 
his annoyance, as you shall presently learn. 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 

“ On the following day, my aunt, who never speaks unless strongly 
moved, took it into her head to begin a conversation with the abbe 
and the chaplain, and as, with the exception of her family affections 
which entirely absorb her, she is incapable of conversing on any topic 
but that of family honor, she was ere long deep in a dissertation 
on her favorite subject, genealogy, and laboring to convince the two 
priests that our race was the purest and the most illustrious, as well 
as the most noble, of all the families of Germany, on the female side 
particularly. The abbe listened with patience, the chaplain with pro- 
found respect, when Albert, who apparently had taken no interest in 
the old lady’s disquisition, all at once interrupted her. 

“ ‘ It would seem, my dear aunt,’ said he, ‘ that you are laboring 
under some hallucination as to the superiority of our family. It is 
true that their titles and nobility are of sufficient antiquity, but a 
family which loses its name, abjures it in some sort, in order to as- 
sume that of a woman of foreign race and teligion, gives up its right 
to be considered ancient in virtue, and faithful to the glory of its 
country.’ 

“ This remark somewhat disconcerted the canoness, but as the 
abbe had appeared to lend profound attention to it, she thought it in- 
cumbent on her to reply. 

‘“lam not of your opinion, dear child,’ said she; ‘ we have often 
seen illustrious houses render themselves still more so, and with rea- 
son, by uniting to their name that of a maternal branch, in order not 
to deprive their heirs of the honor of being descended from a woman 
so illustriously connected.’ 

But this is a case to which that rule does not apply,’ answered 
Albert, with a pertinacity for which he w^as not remarkable. ‘ I can 
conceive the alliance of two illustrious names. It is quite right that 
a woman should transmit to her children her own name joined with 
that of her husband; but the complete abolition of the latter would 
appear to me an outrage on the part of her who would exact it, and 
an act of baseness on the part of him who would submit to it.’ 

“ ‘ You speak of matters of very remote date, Albert,’ said the can- 
oness, with a profound sigh, ‘ and are even less happy than I in the 
application of the rule. Our good abbe might, from your words, sup- 
pose that some one of our ancestors had been capable of such mean- 
ness. And since you appear to be so well informed on subjects of 
which I supposed you comparatively ignorant, you should not have 
made a reflection of this kind relative to political events, now, 
thank God, long passed away ! ’ 


132 


CONSUELO. 


“‘If niy observation disturb you, I sball detail the facts, in order tc 
clear the memory of our ancestor, Withold, the last Count of Rudol- 
stadt, of every imputation injurious to it. It appears to interest my 
cousin,’ he added, seeing that my attention had become riveted upon 
him, astonished as I was to see him engage in a discussion so contrary 
to his philosophical ideas and silent habits. ‘ Know, then, Amelia, 
that our great-great-grandfather, Wratislaw, was only four years old 
when his mother, Ulrica of Eudolstadt,took it into her head to inflict 
upon him the insult of supplanting his true name — the name of his 
fathers, which was Podiebrad — by this Saxon name which you and I 
bear to-day — you without blushing for it, and I without being pioud 
of it.’ 

“ ‘ It is useless, to say the least of it,’ said my uncle, who seemed 
ill at ease, ‘ to recall events so distant from the time in which we 
live.’ 

“ ‘ It appears to me,’ said Albert, ‘ that my aunt has gone much fur- 
ther back, in relating the high deeds of the Rudolstadts, and 1 do not 
know why one of us, when he recollects by chance that he is of Bo- 
hemian and not of Saxon origin— that he is called Podiebrad, and 
not Rudolstadt— should be guilty of ill-breeding in speaking of events 
which occurred not more than one hundred and twenty years ago.’ 

“ ‘ I know very well,’ said the abbe, who had listened to Albert, 
with considerable interest, ‘that your illustrious family was allied 
in past times to the royal line of George Podiebrad ; but I was not 
aware that it had descended in so direct a line as to bear the name.’ 

“ ‘ It is because my aunt, who knows how to draw out genealogical 
trees, has thought fit to forget the ancient and venerabre one tfom 
which we have sprung. But a genealogical tree, upon which our glo- 
rious but dark history has been written in characters of blood, stands 
yet upon the neighboring.moun tains.’ 

“ As Albert became very animated in speaking thus, and my uncle’s 
countenance appeared to darken, the abbe, much as his curiosity was 
excited, endeavored to give the conversation a diflerent turn. But 
mine would not suffer me to remain silent when so fair an opportu- 
nity presented itself for satisfying it. “ ‘ What do you mean, Albert 
I exclaimed, approaching him. 

“ ‘ I mean that which a Podiebrad should not be ignorant of,’ he re- 
plied: ‘ that the old oak of the Stone of Terror, which you see every 
day from your window, Amelia, and under which you should never 
sit down without raising your soul to God, bore, some three hundred 
years ago, fruit rather heavier than the dried acorns it produces to- 
day.’ 

“ ‘ It is a shocking story,’ said the chaplain, horror-struck, ‘ and I 
do not know who could have informed the count of it.’ 

“ ‘ The tradition of the country, and perhaps something more cer- 
tain still,’ replied Albert. — ‘You have in vain burned the archives of 
the family, and the records of history, Mr. Chaplain ; in vain imposed 
silence on the simple by sophistry, on the weak by threats: neither 
the dread of despotic power, however great, nor even that of hell it- 
self, can stifle the thousand voices of the past which awaken on 
every side. No, no! they speak too loudly, these terrible voices, for 
that of a priest to hush them ! They speak to our souls in sleep, in 
the whisperings of spirits from the dead ; they appeal to us in every 
sound we hear in the external world; they issue even from the 
trunks of the trees, like the gods of the olden time, to tell us of the 
crimes, the misfortunes, and the noble deeds of our ancestors ! ’ 


CONSUELO. 


133 


‘ And why, poor child,’ said the canoness, ‘ why cherish in your 
mind such bitter thoughts — such dreadful recollections?’ 

“ ‘ It is your genealogies, dear aunt — it is your recurrence to the 
times that are gone— which have pictured to my mind those fifteen 
monks hung to the branches of the oak by the hand of one of my an- 
cestors — the greatest, the most terrible, the most persevering — he who 
was surnamed the Terrible — the blind, the invincible John Ziska of 
the Chalice ! ’ 

The exalted, yet abhorred name of the chief of the Taborites, a 
sect which, during the war of the Hussites, surpassed all other reli- 
gionists in their energy, their bravery, and their cruelty, fell like a 
thunderbolt on the ears of the abbe' and the chaplain. The latter 
crossed himself, and ray aunt drew back her chair, which was close to 
that of Albert. ‘ Good Heaten ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ of what and of 
whom does this child speak ? Do not heed him, Mr. Abbe ! Never — 
no, never — was our family connected by any ties, either of kindred or 
friendship, with the odious reprobate whose name has just been men- 
tioned.’ 

“ ‘ Speak for yourself, aunt,’ said Albert, with energy ; ‘ you are a 
Rudolstadt to the heart’s core, although in reality a Podiebrad. As 
for myself, I have more Bohemian blood in my veins — all the purer, 
too, for its having less foreign admixture. My mother had neither 
Saxons, Bavarians, nor Prussians, in her genealogical tree; she waS 
of pure Sclavonic origin. And since you appear to care little for no- 
bility, 1, who am proud of my descent, shall inform you of it, if you 
are ignorant, that John Ziska left a daughter, who married the lord 
of Prachalitz, and that my mother herself, being a Praohalitz, de- 
scends in a direct line from John Ziska, just as j^ou yourself, my aunt 
descend from the Rudolstadts.’ 

“ ‘ It is a dream, a delusion, Albert ! ’ 

“ ‘ Not so, dear aunt; I appeal to the chaplain, who is a God-fearing 
man, and will speak the truth. He has had in his hands the parch- 
ments which prove what I have asserted.’ 

“ ‘ I? ’ exclaimed the chaplain, pale as death. 

“ ‘ You may confess it without blushing, before the abbe,’ replied 
Albert, with cutting irony, ‘ since you only did your duty as an Aus- 
trian subject, and a good Catholic, in burning them the day after ray 
mother’s death.’ 

“ ‘ That deed, which my conscience approved, was witnessed by 
God alone,’ falteringly replied the chaplain, terror-stricken at the dis- 
closure. of a secret of which he considered himself the sole human re- 
pository. ‘ Who, Count Albert, could have revealed it to you? ’ 

“ ‘ I have already told you, Mr. Chaplain — a voice which speaks 
louder than that of a priest.’ 

“ ‘ What voice, Albert?’ I exclaimed, with emotion. 

“ * The voice which speaks in sleep,’ replied Albert. 

“ ‘ But that explains nothing, ray son,’ said Count Christian, sigh- 
ing. 

“ ‘ It is the voice of blood, my father,’ said Albert, in a tone so 
sepulchral that it made us shudder. 

“‘Alas!’ said my uncle, clasping his hands, ‘these are the same 
reveries, the same phantoms of the imagination, which haunted his 
poor mother. She must have spoken of it to our child in her last ill- 
ness,’ he added,* turning to ray aunt, ‘ and such a story was well cal- 
culated to make a lively impression on his memory.’ 


134 


C O N S U E L O, 


“‘That, brother, were impossible,’ replied the canoness, ‘Albert 
was not yet three years old when he lost bis mother.’ 

“ ‘ It is more reasonable to suppose,’ said the chaplain, in a whisper, 
‘ that some of those accursed heretical documents, full of lies and tis- 
sues of impiety, which she had hoarded up from family pride, and 
which she had yet the virtue to deliver up to me at her last hour, must 
have been preserved in tiie house.’ 

‘“Not one of these remained,’ returned Albert, who had not missed 
one syllable that the chaplain had uttered, though he spoke very low, 
and Albert was striding about in great agitation at the farthest ex- 
tremity of the grand saloon. ‘You knew right well. Monsieur Chap- 
lain, that you destroyed them all, and that the very day after her 
death, you searched and rummaged every corner of her apartments.’ 

“ ‘ Who has thus presumed to assist, m: rather, bewilder your mem- 
ory ? ’ asked Count Christian sternly. ‘ What unfaithful or imprudent 
servant has ventured to disturb your young spirit by a recital, of course, 
all exaggerated and distorted, of these domestic events? ’ 

“ ‘ No one, my father. On my religion and my conscience I swear 
it to you.’ 

“‘The arch enemy of man has interfered in all this!’ exclaimed 
the chaplain, in .utter consternation. 

“ ‘ It would be more consistent with reason and with Christianity,’ 
observed the abbe, ‘ to conclude that Count Albert is endowed with a 
prodigious memory, and events, the sight of which rarely produce 
strong impressions on the minds of the young, have beorne fixed in 
his memory. All that I have seen of his extraordinary intellect leads 
me easily to accept the belief that his reason was most precociously 
developed, and as to his faculty of retaining the remembrance of 
things, I have often taken note of it as extraordinary.’ 

“ ‘It only appears extraordinary to you. because you do not possess 
it in the least,’ replied Albert, drily. ‘ For instance, you do not remem- 
ber what you did in the year 1619, after Withold Podiebrad, the 
Protestant, the valiant and the faithful — your grand-sire, my dear 
aunt— the last who bore that name, reddened the Stone of Terror with 
his blood. You have forgotten, I would lay any wager, your own 
conduct at that crisis. Monsieur Abbe.’ 

“‘I have indeed forgotten it entirely,’ said the abbe, with a sneer- 
ing smile, which was in the very worst taste at a moment when it 
was becoming apparent to us all that Albert was totally out of his 
senses. 

“‘ Well, then,’ resumed Albert, in no sort disconcerted, ‘I will re- 
call it to your memory. You went with all speed, and advised the 
Imperialist soldiers, who had done the deed, to take hiding or to fly, 
because the mechanics of Pilsen, who were courageous enough to 
boast themselves Protestants, and who adored Withold, were already 
afoot to avenge their lord’s death,' and bent on hewing them to 
pieces. Then you came to my ancestress, Ulrica, the terrified and 
trembling widow of Count Withold, and pledged yourself to make her 
peace with the Emperor Ferdinand II., to procure the preservation to 
her of all her possessions, of all her titles, of her own liberty, and the 
life of her children, if she would follow your advice, and pay your 
services at the rate of their weight iu gold. She cotisented, or rather 
her maternal love, not she, consented to that act of weakness. She 
suspected no longer the. martyrdom of her noble spou’se. She was a 
Catholic by birth, and had abjured her own faith only through love 


C O N S TI E L O. 


135 


for him. She could not, therefore, contemplate the endurance of 
•misery, proscription, persecution, in order to preserve to the children 
of Withold a faith to which he had signed his own adherence with his 
blood, and a name which he had rendered of late more famous than 
that of all his ancestors, whether they were called Hussites, Calixtins, 
Taborites, Orphans, United Brethren, or Lutherans' All these 
names, my dear Porporina, are the titles of different sects, which ad- 
hered to the heresies of John Hnss and of Luther, and to which it is 
probable that branch of the Podiebrads from which we are desceml- 
ed had attached itself. ‘ At length.’ continued Albert, ‘ the Saxon 
woman was terrified, and yielded. You took possession of the castle, 
compelled the withdrawal of the Imperialists, caused our territories 
to be respected, and made a public auto da fe of all our titles and 
hereditary archives. It was therefore that my aunt, to her own 
gfeat satisfaction, has been prevented from re-establishing the gene- 
alogical tree of the Podiebrads, and has fallen back upon the more 
sterile pastures of the Rudolstadts. To reward your services you 
were made rich, vastly rich. Three months later, permission was 
given Ulrica to go to Vienna, there to embrace the knees of the Em- 
peror, who very generously consented to her denationalizing her chil- 
dren and causing tliem to be educated by you in the Roman Catholic 
faith, and to be enrolled under those very banners against which their 
father and their forefathers had fought so valiantly and so long. We 
were incorporated, I and my sons, in the ranks of Austrian tyranny. 

“‘You and your sons!’ cried ray aunt in despair, seeing that he 
was now utterly astray. 

“ ‘ Yes, my sons Sigismund and Rudolph,’ replied Albert, very seri- 
ously. 

“• Those are the names of my father and my uncle!’ cried Count 
Christian. ‘ Albert, where is your reason ? Be yourself again, my 
son. Above a century has elapsed since those sad events were 
wrought out by the will of Providence.’ 

“Albert would not give up the point. He had persuaded himself, 
and would have persuaded us, that he was the same Wratislaw, the son 
of Podiebrad, who bore the maternal name of Rudolstadt. He related 
to us all the events of his childhood, the distinct recollection which he 
preserved of the execution of Count Withold, an execution which he as- 
cribed solely to the odious Jesuit, Dithmar, who, according to him, was 
no other than the abbe, his present tutor, — the deep hatred which he 
had entertained from his childood upward for this Dithmar, for Austria, 
and in a word, for all Imperialists and Catholics. Beyond this recollec- 
tion ail appeared to become chaotic, and he uttered a thousand incom- 
prehensible dicta about eternal and perpetual life, asserting the reap- 
pearance of men on earth, that John Huss was predestined to return 
to Bohemia a hundred years after his death — a prediction which, as he 
asserted, had already met its accomplishment— since, as he insisted, 
Luther was no other than John Huss resuscitated. In a word, his 
conversation became a conlused jargon of heresy, superstition, dim 
metaphysics, and poetical raving, and yet all was uttered witli such an. 
air of conviction, with such a preservation of details, and with state- 
ments so interesting of what he pretended to have seen, not only in 
the person of Wratislaw, but also in that of John Ziska, and I know 
not how many dead persons beside, whom he maintained to have been 
no other than previous incarnations of himself in a prior state oi ex- 
ist^ice, that we all stood listening to him wiBi open mouths, without 


136 


C O N S U E L O. 


the power of either interrupting or contradicting him. My nncle and 
aunt, who were ineffiibly horror-stricken by these hallucinations, which ' 
were in their eyes actually impious, were anxious, at least, to pene- 
trate them to the bottom, for they had never developed themselves 
openly at any prior period; and in order to cure, it was necessary, be- 
yond doubt, to comprehend them. The abbe persisted in endeavoring 
to attribute the whole matter to a joke, and to make us believe that 
the Count Albert’s temper was a compound of malicious drollery, and 
that he was amusing himself by mystifying us with his unparalleled 
erudition. ‘ He has read so much,’ said he, ‘ that he can re-word the 
history of all ages, chapter by chapter, with such minute details, that 
no one who hears him, how little inclined he may be soever to give 
credit to the marvellous, can easily doubt that he must have been pres- 
ent at the scenes which he describes so much to the life.’ The can- 
noness, who, in her ardent devotion, is not, after all, very far removed 
from superstition, and who was beginning to believe her nephew on 
his word, took the abbe’s insinuations altogether in a false light, and 
told him that she would advise him to keep his jocose explanations for 
some gayer occasion, and then made an earnest effort to induce Al- 
bert to retract the efforts of which his head was so full. 

“ ‘ Beware, aunt! ’ exclaimed Albert, impatiently, ‘ beware lest I be 
compelled to tell you who you are. Hitherto i have avoided tlie 
knowledge, but something is whispering to me, even now, that the 
Saxon Ulrica is beside me ! ’ 

“‘What, my poor son,’ she answered, ‘ do you take me for that 
kind and devoted ancestress who had wit to preserve to her descend- 
ants independence, life, and the honors wliich they still enjoy? Do 
you think that she is raised to life in my person? Well, Albert, I 
love you so well that I would do yet more "than she for you; I would 
sacrifice my life if I were able at this very moment to give rest and 
peace to your perturbed spirit.’ 

“ Albert gazed at her for some seconds with eyes of blended stern- 
ness and affection, but at length, kneeling down before her, he ex- 
claimed, ‘No, no, you are an angel, and you were a communicant of 
old in the wooden chalice of the Hussites. But the Saxon woman is 
here, notwithstanding, and already several times her voice has this day 
echoed in my ears.’ 

“ ‘Beware lest it should prove to be I,’ said I in my turn, persist- 
ing in the endeavor to give a gay turn to the whole subject, ‘ and at 
all events blame me not that I would not surrender you to the execu- 
tioners in the year 1619.’ 

^ “‘You, my mother!’ he then cried, gazing on me with an expres- 
sion that really alarmed me; ‘for if it be so, I cannot pardon you. 
God caused me, when born again, to be boi-n of a stronger w'oman ; he 
rebaptised me in my own substance, which had been lost, I know not 
how, in the blood of Zisca. Amelia, look not at me, above all, speak 
hot to me, for it is your blood that inflicts upon me all that I this day 
endure.’ 

“ And with these words he left the room hastily, and we all stood 
disconcerted at the fatal discovery which we had made, at length, of 
the total derangement of his intellects. 

“ It was at that time about two hours after noon ; we had dined 
very quietly; Albert had drank nothing but water, so that we could 
not even deceive ourselves into the idea that his hallucinations were 
the result of intoxication. My aunt and the chaplain, who fancied 


C O N S U E L O. 


137 ' 

that he must be exceedingly ill, rose at once and followed him, in or- 
der to give him their care. But what is quite incomprehensible, he 
had already disappeared, as if by enchantment. He was not to be 
found in his own apartment, nor in that of his mother, where he w'as 
often wont to conceal himself, nor in any corner of the castle. He 
was sought for in the gardens, in the warren, in the surrounding 
woods, among the mountains, but far or near, no one had laid eyes on 
him. Not a track of his footsteps were to be discovered. Thus pass- 
ed the day and night. Not a soul in the house closed an eye or lay 
down to rest. 

“ The whole family went to prayers, and the servants were on foot 
until daybreak, seeking him with torches. The next day passed amid 
the like solicitudes, the next night amid the like terrors. I cannot 
describe to you the terrors which I suffered — I, who had never be- 
fore known what it is to suffer, never had to tremble during all my 
life before at any domestic events of importance. I begun seriously 
to believe that Albert had either committed suicide, or made his es- 
cape forever. I fell into convulsions, and afterwards contracted a 
violent fever. I had still a remnant of love left within me, in spite 
of all the terror with which this fatal and 'fantastical being inspired 
me. My father still kept up his courage enough to go out hunting 
daily, in the conviction that he should one day find Albert in the 
woods. My poor aunt, consumed by her sorrow, but still courageous 
and energetic, nursed me tenderly, and endeavored to keep up the 
courage of every one. My uncle prayed both night and day, and 
when I observed his faith and stoical resignatio» to the will of heaven, 

I regretted that I could not participate in his devotion. 

“ The abbe affected a little annoyance. ‘ It is true,’ said he, ‘ that 
Albert has never before departed in the like manner from my pres- 
ence, but he has always appeared to stand in need of moments of 
solitude and self-examinatioi\.’ It was his idea that the only mode of 
conquering these notions of his, was never to contradict them. In 
fact, this under-bred person was a mere selfish and subtle intriguer, 
who only cared to gain the large salary attached to his duties as 
tutor and in order to make them last as long as possible, had deliber- 
ately deceived the family as related to his good offices. Engaged in 
his own pleasures or occupations, he had abandoned Albert to his 
own utmost irregularities. It is probable that he had often seen him 
sick, and often in his fits of delirium, but undoubtedly he had always 
given free scope to all his fantasies. One thing is certain, that he had 
possessed the ability to conceal them from all who had the means of 
giving us information concerning them, as all the letters which my 
uncle ever received on the subject of his son, were, filled with admir- 
ation of his manners and person, and congratulations on his advan- 
tages of bearing and appearance. Albert seems nowhere to have left 
the impression "on any mind that he was either ill in body or in mind. 
Whatever he may be now, his mental existence during these eight 
years is to this very hour an impenetrable secret, withheld from all of 
us. At the expiration of three days, the abbe, seeing that he did not 
return, and fearing that his own prospects would be ruined by this 
catastrophe, left the castle, stating himself that he was setting out for 
Prague, whither, according to his assertions, the wish to obtain some 
rare book might have led his pupil. ‘ He is,’ said he, ‘ like those 
learned men who bury themselves alive in their searches after know- 
ledge, and who forget the whole world in the pursuit of their jnnocent 


138 


CON SITE LO. 


passion.’ So, with such consolation as his words imparted-, the abbe 
took himself away and we saw him no more. 

“ At length, when seven days of mortal anguish had expired, and 
we had begun utterly to despair, my aunt, happening to pass by Al- 
bert’s open door, in the afternoon, saw him seated in his arm-chair, 
caressing his dog, which had followed him mysteriously in his Jour- 
ney. His garments were neither soiled nor rent, but the gold em- 
broideries were tarnished, as if he had been dwelling in a damp place, 
or had been passing his nights in the open air. His shoes did not 
show as though he had walked far, but his beard and hair shewed 
that for a long time past he had utterly neglected the care of his person. 
From that day forth he has constantly refused either to shave his 
beard, or powder his hair, like other men of his rank. That is what 
made you fancy that he looks like a ghost. 

“ My aunt rushed up to him with an exclamation of surprise. 

What ails you, my dear aunt?’ said he, kissing her hand; ‘ one 
would suppose you had not seen me in the last century.’ 

‘“Unhappy boy!’ she answered, ‘it is seven days since you have 
left us; seven days of anguish, seven nights of horror, that we have 
sought you, bewept you, prayed for you ! ’ 

“‘Seven days!’ cried Albert, gazing at lier in wonder; ‘seven 
hours you mean, 1 fancy; for I went out this morning to take a W’alk, 
and here I am home in time to sup with you. How then can I have 
alai tned you so by so short an absence ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! I have made a slip of the tongue,’ she answered readily, 
afraid of aggravating his mood. ‘ 1 meant to say seven hours, of 
course. I grew uneasy, because you are not wont to take such long 
walks; and, again, I had a horrible dream this evening. I was very 
silly, indeed.’ 

“ ‘ Ah, my dear good aunt,’ said Albert, still kissing her hands, ‘ you 
dote on me still as if I were a little child. I hope my father bus not 
been equally alarmed about me.’ 

•‘ ‘ By no means! He is waiting supper for you; you must be very 
hungry ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, not very. I made a very good dinner.’ 

Where, and when, Albert?’ 

“ ‘ Here at noon, with all of you, my good aunt; w’here else? You 
have not come to yourself, I see ; oh! how much I reproach myself for 
so alarming you. But how could I foresee it? ’ 

“‘You know that it is often thus with me. Let me then enquire 
what you have eaten, and where you have slept since you left us.’ 

“ ‘How should 1 be disposed to eat or sleep since this morning? ’ 

“ ‘ And do you not feci ill ? ’ 

“‘ Not a particle.’ 

“ ‘ Nor fatigued ? I doubt not you have walked far, and climbed the 
liills — such walks are very toilsome. Where have you been?’ 

“ Albert covered his eyes with his hand, as if he were anxious to 
recollect himself, but he could tell nothing. 

“ ‘ I suppose I walked,’ he said at length, ‘ as I did when I was a 
child, without seeing anything, for I must admit that I know nothing 
about it. 1 suppose I was very absent. You know 1 have never had 
the power of giving you the facts when you questioned me.’ 

“‘And while you were travelling have you paid no more attention 
than oi old to what you saw? ’ 

“ ‘ Sometimes, yes— sometimes, no. I remember much that I have 
seen, but, thank God ! I forget much more.’ 


CONSUELO. 


139 


« ‘ Qod f > 

‘ Because there is so much misery to be seen in the world,’ said 
he, risiu", with a gloomy expression, which my aunt had not previous- 
ly observed in him. She saw that it would not do to prolong the con- 
versation with him, and hurried away to announce his son’s return to 
my uncle. No one in the house as yet knew it; no one had seen him 
come in. His return had left no visible marks more than his depar- 
ture. 

“ My poor uncle, who had borne his sorrow with so much constancy 
and courage, was found wanting in the first moments of joy. He 
fainted away, and, when Albert made his appearance, was the most 
altered of the two; but in that time Albert, who, since his long jour- 
neying, had seemed insensible to every emotion, was once more en- 
tirely changed, and different from all that he had been hitherto. He 
offered his father a thousand caresses, became very uneasy at seeing 
the change which had taken place in him, and was anxious to learn 
the cause of it. But when they felt themselves capable of telling him 
the reasons of it, he never could understand what had passed, and 
everything he said bore on it such a stamp of sincerity and good faith, 
that they could not doubt that he was really ignorant where he had 
been during his seven days’ absence.” 

“ What you tell me,” said Consuelo, “ is like a dream, and is more 
like, my dear baroness, to set me musing, than to put me to sleep. 
How can it be that a man should live seven days unconscious of all 
things ? ” 

“ This is nothing to what I have yet to tell you, and until you have 
seen with your own eyes that instead of exaggerating I extenuate 
matters, and abridge them, you will, I can easily conceive, have no 
trouble to believe me. I tell you that which I myself have seen; and 
I sometimes ask myself, even now, whether Albert is a sorcerer, or is 
merely amusing himself at our expense. But it is growing late, and 
I am .exhausting your good-nature.” 

“ I rather am exhausting yours,” said Consuelo ; “ you must be tired 
of talking. Let us, if you will, put ofif the sequel of this strange tale 
till to-morrow evening.” 

“ To-morrow be it then,” said the young baroness, taking leave of 
her with a kiss. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The strange story to which she had been listening kept Consuelo 
long awake. The night, dark, rainy, and full of wild resounding gusts, 
added not a little to superstitious dreams, of which she had never 
dreamed before. “ Is there, then,” she mused with herself, “ some 
trange destiny which weighs down certain beings? How can this 
girl, who has been speaking to me for the last half hour, have so 
offended Providence, when she is so frank and sincere as to her 
wounded self-love, and her bright dreams overcast? Nay, how can I 
myself so have sinned as to deserve such a disruption of my love, such 
a shock to my heart? And, alas! what can this frenzied Albert of 
Rudolgtadt have committed, that he has thus lost all self-knowledge, 
and all self-governance? What detestation could have moved ProVi- 


140 


CONSUELO, 


dence so to abandon Anzoleto to all depraved senses and perv ers« 
temptations ? ” 

Overpowered at last by weariness, she slept, and lost herself in a 
maze of unmeaning and inconsequential dreams. Twice or thrice 
she awoke and slept again, ignorant where she was, and fancying her- 
self still on her journ^iy. Porpora, Anzoleto, the Count Zustiniani, 
and Gorilla, all floated before her, repeating strange and dolorous 
words, charging her with crimes, the penalty of which she seemed to 
hear, without any memory of their commission. But all her other 
visions waned before that of Count Albert, wdio ever flitted across her 
eyes, with his black beard, his glassy eye, and his gold-laced sable 
garb, now sprinkled with tears, like a moist cloth. 

At length, awaking with a start, she saw Amelia, already dre.ssed, 
all fresh and smiling, by her bed-side. 

“Do you know, dear Porporina,” said the young baroness, kissing 
her on the brow, “ that you, too, have something strange about you? 
Am I fated to live with supernatural persons? for cei-tainly you, too, 
are one. I have been watching you asleep this half hour, to see if 
you are prettier than I by daylight. 1 confess I should be vexed if 
you were, for though I have utterly and earnestly discarded all my 
love of Albert forever, I should be piqued to see him smitten w’ith 
you. What would you have? He is the only man here. Hitherto I 
the only woman. Now we are two, and we shall have a crow to pick 
if you outshine me wholly.” 

“ You love to jest!” said Consuelo, “ but it is not kind of you. But 
leave off such nonsense, and tell me what there is odd about me. Per- 
haps I am grown uglier than ever; I dare say it is so.” 

“ To tell you the truth, Nina, my first look at you this morning, 
with your pale face, your great eyes, half shut, and rather fixed than 
sleeping, and your thin arm lying on the coverlid, did give me a mo- 
mentary triumph. Then, as I gazed on you still, I grew frightened at 
your motionless attitude, and your truly royal air. Your arm is 
queen-like, I insist on it; and your calmness has a dominion and a 
power in it of which I can give no account. Now 1 think you hor- 
ribly beautiful, and yet there is gentleness in all your aspect. Tell me 
what you are, who at once attract and alarm me. I am ashamed of 
all the follies I told you of myself last night. As yet you have told 
me nothing of yourself, and yet you are aware of almost all my faults.” 

“ If 1 have a queenly air, I certainly never dreamed 1 had it,” re- 
plied Consuelo, with a wan smile. “ It must be the sad air of a dis- 
crowned one. As to my beauty, I have always considered that more 
than doubtful; but as to my opinion of you, my dear Baroness Amelia, 
I have no doubt of your frankness or kindness.” 

“Oh! frank I am— but are you so, Nina? Surely, you look as if 
you had the nobleness of truth; but are you communicative? I fancy 
not.” 

“ It would not have become me to be so the first. It was for you, 
new patroness and mistress of my destiny, to make the first advances 
to me.” 

“You are right; but your good sense chills me. If I seem too 
hairbrained you won't preach at me too much, will you?” 

“ I have no right to do so at all. I am your music-mistress — n® 
more. Besides, I am a poor girl of the people, and how should I pre- 
sume to aspire above my place? ” 

“ You a poor girl of the people, my proud Porporina? Oh ! it can- 


CONSUELO. 141 

not be— impossible ! I would rather believe you the mysterious child 
of some princely race. What was your mother’s profession ? ” 

“ She was a singer, as I am ! ” 

“ And your father? ” 

Consuelo was speechless; she had not prepared answers for all the 
rash familiar questions of the young headlong baroness. In truth, 
she had never heard her father named, nor had thought of enquiring 
if she had a father. 

“ Come ! ” said Amelia, bursting out laughing, “ it is so : I was sui-e 
of it; your father was some Spanish Grandee, or Doge of Venice.” 

But to Consuelo such expressions sounded light — almost insulting. 

“ And so,” she said, “ I presume an honest mechanic, or a poor ar- 
tist, has not the right to transmit to his children any natural distinc- 
tions! Must the children of the poor be necessarily coarse and 
deformed ? ” 

“ My aunt Wenceslawa would hold that to be a sarcasm ! ” said the 
baroness, laughing louder yet. “ Come, dear Nina, pardon me if I have 
made you a little angry, and let me build a better romance upon you, 
in my head. But dress yourself quickly, my dear; the bell is going to 
ring, and my aunt would rather let all the family die of hunger than 
breakfast without you. I will help you to open your trunks. I am 
sure you have brought some pretty dresses from Vefiice, and that you 
will put me up to the last fashions — me, who have lived here so long 
among savages.” 

Consuelo gave her the keys, scarce listening to her, while she made 
haste to dress her hair, and Amelia hastened to open tlie trunks, which 
she expected to find full of clothes ; but, to her great surprise, she saw 
nothing but old music books, loose sheets of music, tattered with 
much use, and manuscripts apparently undecypherable. 

“Ah! what is all this? ” she cried, wiping the dust from her pretty 
fingers; “you have a mighty odd wardrobe, iny child.” 

“ They are treasures; treat them with respect, baroness. Some are 
autographs of the greatest masters, and I would rather lose my voice 
than^miss returning them to Porpora, who lent them to me.” Ame- 
lia opened another box, which was filled with ruled paper, treatises 
on music, and other works on composition, harmony, and counter- 
point. 

“Ah! I understand,” said she, laughing. “This is your jewel 
box.” 

“ I have no other,” replied Consuelo, “ and I trust that you will 
often use this one.” 

« Well — well — I see that you are a stern mistress. But may I ask 
you, my dear Nina, where you have put your dresses ? ” 

“ There, in that little paper box,” said Consuelo, going to fetcli it, 
and showing the baroness a little black silk dress, neatly and freshly 
folded. 

“ Is this all ? ” asked Amelia. 

“That is all, except my travelling dress,” said Consuelo. “But 
when I have been a few days here I will make another, just like this, 
that I may have a change.” 

“ Ah, my dear, then you are in mourning? ” 

“ Perhaps so, signora,” said Consuelo, sadly. 

“ Pardon me, I pray. I ought to have known from your manner 
that you were sad at heart, and I love you even better so. We shall 
sympathise with each other all the more quickly. For I also have 


142 


C O N S U E L O, 


causes enough for sorrow, and might as well wear mourning now for 
the husband who is destined for me. Ah, my dear Nina, be not 
scared at my wildness, it is often put on to conceal deep sorrows.” 

They kissed each other affectionately, and went down into the 
breakfast room, where they were waited for. 

Consuelo saw at a glance that her modest black dress, and white 
handkerchief, closed quite to her chin by a broach of jet, had given 
the canoness a favorable opinion of her. The old Count Christian 
was something less reserved, and all were as affable to her as on the 
previous evening. The Baron Frederick, in his courtesy, had refrain- 
ed from going out hunting this day, but he could not find a word to 
say, though he had prepared a thousand courtesies in advance for the 
care she was about to take of his daughter. But he sat down by he-r 
at the table, and loaded her plate so assiduously that he liad no time 
to attend to his own meal. The chaplain enquired of her concerning 
their order of processions in Venice, the luxury and decorations of 
the churches, and the like, and seeing by her replies that she had 
much frequented them; learning moreover, that it was in them she 
had been taught to sing, he showed her much consideration. 

As to Count Albert, Consuelo scarce dared raise her eyes to him, for 
no other reason than that about him only was she curious. She knew 
not what notice he had taken of her. Only as she crossed the room 
she saw his reflection in a mirror, and observed that he was dressed 
with some taste, though always in black. It was evidently the figure 
of a man of noble rank, but his dishevelled hair and beard, and his 
darkly pale complexion, gave him the aspect of wearing the neglected 
head of a handsome fisher of the Adriatic, on the shoulders of a no- 
bleman. 

The music of his voice, however, soon attracted Consuelo, and ere 
long she took the courage to look at him. She was surprised then to 
find in him the air and mannei's of an extremely sensible man. He 
spoke little, but with judgment, and when she rose he offered Irer his 
hand — without looking at her it is true, for he had not done her that 
honor since the previous evening — but with much courtesy and grace. 
She trembled from head to foot as she placed her hand in that of the 
romantic hero of all the strange tales she had heard the last evening. 
She expected to find it cold, as" that of a corpse. But it was soft and 
warm, as that of a gentleman. To say the truth, Consuelo could 
scarce admit the fact. Her internal agitation rendered her almost 
giddy, and Amelia’s eye. which followed her every movement, would 
have completed her confusion, had she not armed herself with dignity 
to confront the sly and heedless girl. She returned the low bow 
which Albert made her, as he led her to a seat, but not a glance, much 
less a word, was exchanged between them. 

“ Do you know, O, false Porporina,” said Amelia in her ear, as she 
came down to sit close beside her, “ that you are working wonders on 
my cousin ? ” 

“ I certainly have not seen it yet,” said Consuelo. 

“ That is because you do not deign to observe his manners 
toward me. For a year past he has not offered me his hand to come, 
or to go, and lo! now he is executing it with all grace. It is true 
that he is now in one of his most lucid intervals. One would say 
that you had brought him both reason and health. But trust not too 
much to appearances, Nina. It will be with you as with me. After 
three days’ cordiality he will not even remember your existence.” 


CONSUELO. 143 

“ I see,” said Consuelo, “ this at least, that I must get used to jok- 
ing.” 

“ Is it not true, little aunt,” whispered Amelia, addressing the can- 
oness, who had just taken her seat beside her and Amelia, “ that my 
cousin is quite charming to our dear Porporina?” 

“Do not ridicule him, Amelia,” Wenceslawa answered, gently. 
“ Mademoiselle will learn the cause of our regrets speedily enough.” 

“ I am not ridiculing him, aunt, but Albert is quite well this morn- 
ing, and I rejoice to see him, as I have not seen him so before, since I 
have been here. If he were shaved, and had his hair powdered, like 
the rest of the world, no one would believe he had ever been sick.” 

“ His calm and healthful aspect does strike me favorably,” said the 
canoness, “ but I never dare to hope for the continuance of so favor- 
able a state of things.” 

“ How noble and good an expression he has,” said Consuelo, eager 
to gratify tl>e canoness. 

“Do you think so?” said Amelia, riveting on her a sportive, yet 
half-malicious, glajice. 

“ Yes, I do think so,” said Consuelo, firmly, “ and I told you so last 
night, mademoiselle. No human face ever inspired me with more re- 
spect.” 

“ Ah ! dear girl ! ” cried the canoness, changing at once from her 
stiff manner, and clasping Consuelo’s hand affectionately. “ Good 
hearts readily recognise each other. I feared that my poor nephew 
would alarm you. It is such sorrow to me to perceive the disgust 
which some faces show on observing his sufferings. But you have 
kind feelings, I see clearly, and you have distinguished at once that 
this ailing and blighted frame contains a noble spirit, worthier of a 
better lot.” 

Consuelo was moved almost to tears by the words of the good old 
canoness, and kissed her withered hand respectfully. Her heart felt 
and sympathised more deeply with the old hunchback than with the 
brilliant and frivolous Amelia. 

They were soon interrupted by the Baron Frederick, who, counting 
on his courage more than on his power, came up with the idea of ask- 
ing a favor of la Signora Porporina. More awkward with ladies than 
even his elder brother— for that sort of awkwardness seemed to be so 
far a family ailment that it was scarcely wonderful to see it developed 
into wild rudeness in the case of Albert — lie began to stammer out 
an address full of excuses, which Amelia undertook to translate to 
Consuelo. “ My father asks you,” said she, “ if you feel courage 
enough to undertake a little music after so tedious a journey, and if 
it will not be imposing too much on your good nature, to ask you to 
hear my voice, and judge of my method.” 

“With all my heart,” said Consuelo, jumping up quickly, and go- 
ing to the piano. 

“You will see,” whispered Amelia, arranging her music on the 
desk, “ that this will soon put Albert to flight, in spite of both our 
bright eyes.” 

And, in fact, Amelia had scarcely began her prelude, before Albert 
rose and left the room on tip-toe, as if he hoped that he should not 
be seen. 

“ It is a great thing,” said Amelia, still speaking in a whisper, 
“ that he did not bang the doors together furiously, as he very often 
does when I am singing. He is quite amiable, one might say gallant, 
to-day.” 


144 


CONSUELO. 


The chaplain now approached the harpsichord, hoping, as it would 
seem, to mask Albert’s flight; the rest of the family stood around in 
a semicircle, to hear Consuelo’s judgment of her pupil. 

Amelia dashed bravely into an air of Pergolese’s Archilles in Scy- 
ros, and sang it intrepidly from end to end, with a fresh shrill voice, 
accompanied by so comical a German accent, that Consuelo, who 
never had heard aught the least like it, could hardly restrain a smile, 
at every word. She had no need to listen to four bars, before she 
saw that the young baroness had no true notion, no intelligence for 
music whatsoever. A flexible tone she had, and good lessons she 
might have taken, but her character was too trifling to allow of her 
studying anything faithfully. For the same reason she had no dis- 
trust whatever of her own powers, but hammered away with German 
matter-of-fact coolness atthe most diflScult and daring passages, and 
'banging her accompaniment most strenuously, correcting her time 
as she best might, adding time to the bars following other bars which 
she had curtailed, and so utterly changing the character of the music, 
that Consuelo would really have doubted what she was listening to 
had the music not been before her eyes. 

Nevertheless, Count Christian, who knew nothing at all about the* 
matter, but who imagined his niece to be as shy as he woidd have 
been in her place, kept crying, to encourage her, “ Very well — very 
well, Amelia! Beautiful music — truly beautiful music! ” 

The canoness, who was but little better informed, looked anxiously 
into Consuelo’s eyes, to read her opinion ; and the baron, who liked 
no music but the tantaras of the hunting-horn, and believing that her 
song was above his comprehension, confidently expected the approval 
of the judge. The chaplain also was charmed with her flourishes, 
nothing like which had ever reached his ears before Amelia’s arrival 
at the castle, and nodded his great head to and fro, in absolute con- 
tentment. 

Consuelo saw that to tell them the truth bluntly would be to thun- 
derstrike the whole family. She reserved herself, therefore, for the 
enlightenment of her pupil in private, on all that she had forgot, and 
all that she had to' learn; praised her voice, asked some questions as 
to her studies, approved the masters she had been taught, and forbore 
to tell her that she had studied the wrong end foremost. 

The party then separated, all very well pleased with a trial wdiich 
had really been a very severe one to Consuelo. She was obliged to go 
and shut herself up in her own room, with the music she had heard 
so profaned, and to read it over with her eyes, and sing it mentally, 
in order to efface from her brain the disagreeable impression which 
she had received. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

When the faniily came together again in the evening, Consuelo, 
who was beginning to be more at her ease with these people, with 
whom she wp gradually becoming acquainted, answered the ques- 
tions, which, in their turn, they took courage to ask her, concerning 
b'*': country, her art, and her travels, less briefly and more freely than 


CONSUELO, 


145 

she had cared to do before. She, however, still carefully avoided, ac- 
cording to the rule which she had laid down to herself, to speak of 
her own concerns, and talked of the things among which she had 
lived, without any allusion to the part she had played therein. It 
was all in vain that the inquisitive Amelia endeavored to turn the 
conversation to points which should compel her to enter upon her 
own personal career, for Consuelo, easily perceiving her artifices, did 
not for a single instant betray the incognito which she had resolved 
to maintain.^ It would be difficult to explain why she found a pecu- 
liar charm in this sort of mystery. Several reasons conduced to it. 
In the first place she had promised, nay, even sworn, to Porpora to 
liold herself in such secresy and solitude as should render it impossi- 
ble for Anzoleto to discover her traces, even if he should endeavor to 
do so. A very needless precaution, by the way, for Anzoleto was now 
occupied only by his career and success at Venice. 

In the second place, Consuelo, who was of course desirous of gain- 
ing the esteem and regard of a family which had so kindly granted a 
temporary asylum to her while thus sorrowful and deserted, felt in- 
stinctively that she should be much better regarded as a simple musi- 
cian, a pupil of Porpora’s, and a teacher of singing, than as uprhna 
donna, a woman of the theatre, and a celebrated cantatrice. She 
knew that such a situation, once avowed, would leave her a very diffi- 
cult part to play with that simple and religious family; and it is more 
than probable, that even in despite of Porpora’s introduction, the ar- 
rival of the actress Consuelo, the wonder of San Samuel, would have 
surprised and dismayed them. But if these two powerful motives had 
not existed, Consuelo would have still felt an anxious desire to conceal 
from every one the splendors and the misery of her destiny. Every- 
thing in her whole life was so singularly complicated, her power with 
lier weakness, her glory with her love, that she could not raise a cor- 
ner of her mask without uncovering some wounded spot. ^ 

This renunciation of vanities, which might have solaced another 
woman, proved the salvation of this courageous being. In renounc- 
ing all compassion, as well as all human glory, she felt celestial 
strength come to her aid. “ I must regain some portion of my for- 
mer happiness,” she said : “ that which I so long enjoyed, and which 
consisted in loving and being beloved. The moment I sought the 
world’s admiration it withdrew its love, and I have paid too dear for 
the honors men bestowed in place of their good-will. Let uie begin 
again, obscure and insignificant, that I may be subjected neither to 
envy not ingratitude, nor enmity on the earth. The least token of 
sympathy is sweet, and the highest testimony of admiration is min- 
gled with bitterness. If there be proud and strong hearts to whom 
praise suffices, and whom triumph consoles, I have cruelly experi- 
enc'ed that mine is not of the number, Alas! glory has torn my lov- 
er’s heart from me; let humility yield me in return at least some 
friends.” 

It was not thus that Porpora meant. In removing Consuelo from 
Venice, and from the dangers and agonies of her love, he only in- 
tended to procure her some repose before I’ecalling her to the scene 
of ambition, and launching her afresh into the storms of artistic life. 
He did not know hiS pupil. He believed her more of a w'oman — 
that is to say, more impressionable than she was. In thinking of her, 
he did not fancy her as calm, affectionate, and busied with others, as 
she had already been able to become, but plunged in tears and de- 
9 


146 


C O N S U E L O. 


voured with vain regret. But he thought at the same time that a re 
action would take place, and that he should find her cured of her love, 
and anxious to recommence the exercise of her powers, and enjoy the 
privileges of her genius. 

The pure and religious feeling conceived by Consuelo, of the part 
she was to play in the family of Eudolstadt, spread from this day a 
holy serenity over her words, her actions, and her conntenance. 
Those who had formerly seen her dazzling with love and joy beneath 
the sun of Venice, could not easily have understood how she could 
become all at once calm and gentle in the midst of strangers, in the 
depths of gloomy forests, with her love blighted, both as regarded the 
past and the future. But goodness finds strength where pride only 
meets despair. Consuelo was glorious that evening, with a beauty 
which she had not hitherto displayed. It was not the half-developed 
impulse of sleeping nature w'aiting to be roused, nor the expansion of 
a power which seizes the spectators Avith surprise or deliglit; neitlmr 
was it the hidden, incomprehensible beauty of the scolare zmgarella : 
no, it was the graceful, penetrating charm of a pure and self-possessed 
woman, governed by her own sacred impulses. 

Her gentle and simple hosts needed no other than their generous 
instincts to drink in, if I may use the expression, the mysterious in- 
cense which the angelic soul of Consuelo exhaled in their intellectual 
atmosphere. They experienced, even in looking at her, a moral ele- 
vation which they might have found it difficult to explain, but the 
sweetness of which filled them as wdth a new life. Albert seemed for 
the first time to enjoy the full possession of his faculties. He was 
obliging and good-natured with every one. He was suitably so with 
Consuelo, and spoke to her at different times in such terms as showed 
that he had not relinquished, as might be supposed, the elevated in- 
tellect and clear judgment with which nature had endowed him. The 
baron did not once fall asleep, the canoness ceased to sigh, and Count 
Christian, jt'ho used to sink at night into his arm-chair, bent down 
under the weight of old age and vexation, remained erect w'ith Ids 
back to the chimney, in the centre of his family, and sharing in the 
easy and pleasant conversation, which was prolonged till nine in the 
evening. 

“ God has at length heard our prayers,” said the chaplain to Count 
Christian and the canoness, who remained in the saloon aftei- the de- 
parture of the baron and the young people. “ Count Albeit has this 
day entered his thirtieth year, and this solemn day, so dreaded by 
him and ourselves, has passed over calmly and with unspeakable hap- 
piness.” 

“Yes, let us return thanks unto God,” said the old count. “ It may 
prove but a blessed dream, sent for a moment to comfort us, but I 
could not help thinking all this day, and this evening in particular, 
that my son was perfectly cured.” 

“Brother,” replied the canoness, “ and you, worthy chaplain, I en- 
treat pardon, but you have always believed Albert to be tormented 
by the enemy of human kind. For myself, 1 thought him at issue 
with opposing powei-s which disputed the possession of his poor soul, 
for often, when he repeated words of the bad angel, Heaven spoke 
from his mouth the next moment. Ho you recollect what he said 
yesterday evening during the storm, and his words on leaving us?— 
‘The peace of God has come down on this house.’ Albert experi- 
enced the miracle in himself, and I believe in his recovery as in the 
divine promise.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


147 

^ The chaplain was too timid to admit all at once so bold a proposi- 
tion. He extricated himself from his embarrassment bv saying — “Let 
us ascribe it to eternal goodness; ” “ God reads hidden things;'” “ Tlie 
soul should lose itself in God;” and other sentences, more consola- 
tory than novel. 

Count Christian was divided between the desire of conforming to 
the soinewhat exaggerated asceticism of liis good sister, and the re- 
spect imposed by the prudent and unquestioning orthodoxy of his 
confessor. 

He endeavored to turn the conversation by speaking of the charm- 
ing demeanor of Porporina. The canoness, who loved her already, 
praised her yet more; and the chaplain sanctioned the preference 
which they experienced for her. It never entered their heads to at- 
tribute the miracle which had taken place among them, to Consuelo. 
They accepted the benefit without considering its source. It was 
what Consuelo would have asked of God, could she have been con- 
sulted. 

Amelia w’as a closer observer. It soon became evident to her that 
her cousin could conceal the disorder of his thoughts from persons 
whom he feared, as well as from those whom he wished to please. 
Before relations and friends of the family whom he either disliked or 
esteemed, he never betrayed by any outward demonstration the eccen- 
tricity of his character. When Consuelo expressed her surprise at 
what had been related the preceding evening, Amelia, tormented by a 
secret uneasiness, tried to make her afraid of Count Albert by reci- 
tals which had already terrified herself. “Ah, my poor fiiend,” said 
she, “ distrust this deceitful calm; it is a pause which always inter- 
venes between a recent and an approaching crisis. You see him to- 
day as I first saw him, when I arrived here in the beginning of last 
year. Alas! if you were destined to become the wife of such a vis- 
ionary, and if, to combat your reluctance they had determined to keep 
you prisoner for an indefinite period in this frightful castle, with sur- 
prises, terrors, and agitations for your daily fare — nothing to be seen 
but tears, exorcisms, and extravagances — expecting a cure which will 
never happen — you would be quite disenchanted with the fine man- 
ners of Albert, and the honied words of the family.” 

“ It is not credible,” said Consuelo, “ that they woidd unite you 
against your will to a man whom you do not love. You appear to be 
the idol of your relatives.” 

“They will not force me; they know that would be impossible. 
But they forget that Albert is not the only husband who would suit 
me, and God knows when they will give up the foolish hope that the 
affection with which I at first regarded him will return. And then 
my poor father, who has here wherewith to satisfy his passion for the 
chase, finds himself so well off in this horrible castle, that he will 
always discover some pretext for retarding our departui'e. Ah ! if 
you only knew some secret, my dear Nina, to make all the game in 
the country perish in one night, you would render me an inestimable 
service.” 

“ I can do nothing, unfortunately, but try to amuse you by giving 
you lessons in music, and chatting with you in the evening when 
you are not inclined to sleep. I shall do my utmost to soothe and to 
compose you.” 

“ You remind me,” said Amelia, “ that I have not related the re- 
mainder of the story. I shall begin at once, that I may not keep you 
up too late.” 


148 


C O N S U E L O. 


“ Some days after his mysterious absence, which he still believed 
had only lasted seven hours, Albert remarked the absence of the abbe, 
and asked where he had gone. 

“‘His presence was no longer necessary,’ they replied; ‘he re- 
turned to his own pursuits. Did you not observe his absence? ’ 

“ ‘ I perceived,’ replied Albert, ‘ that something is taken from the 
sum of my suffering, but I did not know what it was.’ 

“‘You suffer much then, Albert,’ asked the canoness. 

“ ‘ Mucli ; ’ be replied, in the tone of a man who is asked what sort 
of night he has passed. 

“ ‘ And the abbe was obnoxious to you? ’ said Count Christian. 

“ ‘ Very,’ he replied, in the same tone. 

“‘And why, my son, did you not say so sooner? Why have you 
borne for so long a time the presence of a man whom you so much 
disliked, without informing me of it? Do you doubt, my dear child, 
that I should have quickly terminated your sufferings? ’ 

“‘It was but a feeble addition to my grief,’ said Albert, with fright- 
ful tranquillity; ‘ and your kindness which I never distrusted, my dear 
father, would have but sightly relieved it, by giving me another super- 
intendent.’ 

“‘ Say another travelling companion, my son; you employ an ex- 
pression injurious to my tenderness.’ 

“ ‘ Your tenderness was the cause of your anxiety, my father. You 
could not be aware of the evil you inflicted on me in sending me from 
this house, where it was designed by Providence I should remain till 
its plans for me should be accomplished. You thought to labor for 
my cure and repose ; but I knew better what was good for us both — I 
knew that I should obey you — and this duty I have fulfilled.’ 

“‘I know your virtue and your affection, Albert; but can you not 
explain yourself more clearly? ’ 

“ ‘ That is very easy,’ replied Albert ; and the time is come that I 
should do so.’ 

“Albert spoke so calmly that we thought the fortunate moment 
had arrived when his soul should cease to be a melancholy enigma. 
We pressed around him, and encouraged him by our looks and cares- 
ses to open his heart for the first time in his life. He appeared at 
length inclined to do so, and spoke as follows: — 

‘“ You have always looked upon me,’ said he, ‘and still continue 
to look upon me, as in ill-health and a madman. Did I not feel for 
you all infinite resi^ect and affection, I should perhaps have widened 
the abyss which separates us, and I should have shown you that you 
are in a world of errors and prejudices, whilst Heaven has given me 
access to a sphere of light and truth. But you could not understand 
me without giving up what constitutes your tranquillity, your secur- 
ity, and your creed. When borne away by my enthusiasm, impru- 
dent words escaped me, I soon found I had done you liann in wish- 
ing to root up your chimeras and display before your enfeebled eyes 
the burning flame which I bore about with me. All the details and 
the habits of your life, all the fibres of your heart, all the springs of 
your intellect, are so bound up together, so trammelled with falsehood 
and darkness, that I should but seem to inflict death instead of life. 
There is a voice, however, which cries to me in watching and in sleep, 
in calm and in storm, to enlighten and convert you. 'But I am too 
loving and too weak a man to undertake it. When I see your eyes 
full of tears your bosoms heave, your foreheads bent down— when I 


C O N S U E L O. 


149 

feel that I bring only sorrow and terror— I fly, I hide myself, to resist 
the cry of conscience and the commands of destiny. Behold the 
cause of my illness! Behold my torment, my cross, my suffering! 
Do you understand me now ? ’ 

“ My uncle, my aunt, and the chaplain, understood this much — that 
Albert had ideas of morality and religion totally different from their 
own ; but, timid as devout, they feared to go too far, and dared not 
encourage his frankness. As to myself, I was only imperfectly ac- 
quainted with the peculiarities of his childhood and youth, and I did 
not at all understand it. Besides, I was at this time, like yourself, 
Nina, and knew very little of this Hussitism and Lutheranism which 
I have since heard so much of, whilst the controversies between Al- 
bert and the chaplain overwhelmed me with weariness. I expected a 
more ample explanation, but it did not ensue. ‘ I see,’ said Albert, 
struck with the silence around him, ‘ that you do not wish to under- 
stand me, for fear of understanding too much. Be it so, then. Your 
blindness has borne bitter fruits. Ever unhappy, ever alone, a 
stranger among those I love, 1 have neither refuge nor stay but in the 
consolation which has been promised me.’ 

What is this consolation, my son ? ’ said Count Christian, deep- 
ly afflicted. ‘ Could it not come from us ? Shall we never understand 
each other? ’ 

Never, my father; let us love each other, since that alone is al- 
lowed. Heaven is my witness, that our vast and irreparable misun- 
derstanding has never diminished the love I bear you.’ 

‘“And is not that 'enough?’ said the canoness, taking one hand, 
while her brother pressed Albert’s other hand in his own. ‘ Can you 
not forget your wild ideas, your strange belief, and live fondly in the 
midst of us? ’ 

“ ‘ I do not live on affection,’ replied Albert. ‘ It is a blessing which 
produces good or evil, according as our faith is a common one or other- 
wise. Our hearts are in union, dear Aunt Wenceslawa, but our intel- 
lects are at war; and this is a great misfortune for us all. I know it 
will not end for centuries. Therefore I await the happiness that has 
been promised me, and which gives me power to hope on.’ 

“ ‘ What is that happiness, Albert? can you not explain ? ’ 

“ ‘ No, for I am myself ignorant of it; but it will come. My mother 
has never missed a week without announcing it to me in my dreams, 
and the voices of the forest whisper it back to me, whensoever I in- 
terrogate them. An angel often flutters around me, showing me its 
pale but lustrous countenance above the Stone of Horror, whither, at 
the time when my contemporaries called me Ziska,I w^as transported 
by the indignation of the Lord, and became for the first time the 
minister of his vengeance — that stone, whereon, when I was called 
Wratislaw, I saw the mutilated and disfigured head of my father 
Withold roll beneath the sabre’s edge — horrible expiation, which 
taught me the meaning of sorrow and of pity — day of fatal remuner- 
ation, when the Lutheran blood washed the stain of Catholic blood, 
and made me a man of tenderness and mercy, instead of the man of 
fanaticism and horror I had been for a hundred years before.’ 

Merciful Providence! ’ cried my aunt. ‘ His madness is coming 
on him again.’ 

“‘Do not vex him, sister,’ said Count Christian, making a great 
effort over himself; ‘suffer him to explain himself. Speak, my son, 
what has4the angel told you about the Kock of Horror? ’ 


150 


CONSUELO. 


“ ‘ He has told me that my consolation was near at hand/ Albert 
answered him, with a face radiant with enthusiasm, ‘ and that it 
would descend upon my heart so soon as my twenty-ninth year 
should be fulfilled.’ 

“ My uncle let his head droop wearily on his breast, for Albert 
seemed to him to allude to his own death by mentioning the age at 
which his mother had died; and it seems that she had often predicted, 
during her malady, that neither herself nor her son should ever at- 
tain the age of thirty; for it would seem that my aunt Wanda was 
somewhat given to supernatural sights also; but I knew nothing pre- 
cise on the subject. It is too painful a recollection for my uncle, and 
no one dares to awaken it in his bosom. 

“ The chaplain then proceeded to make an endeavor at removing 
the sad thoughts created by this mournful prediction, by inducing Al- 
bert to explain himself in regard to the abbe, which was the point 
from which the conversation had branched oflF. 

“ Albert, in his turn, made an effort to reply to him. ‘ I talk to you, 
said he, ‘ of things everlasting and divine ; you recal me to swift 
fleeting instants, puerile cares, which I at once forget.’ 

“ ‘ Speak, my son, nevertheless ; let us try at all events this day to 
comprehend you.’ 

“ ‘ You never have understood, never will understand me, father, in 
W’hat you call this life,’ said Albert. ‘ But if you would know why I 
travelled, why I endured that faithless and careless guardian whom 
you tied to my steps like a greedy and lazy dog to a blind man’s arm, 
I will tell you, and briefly. 1 had seen you suffer cruelly. It was nec- 
essary to withdraw from your eyes the sight of a son rebellious to 
your lessons, deaf to your reproaches. I knew that I should never re- 
cover of what you termed my insanity, but I desired to give you rest 
and hope, and withdrew myself voluntarily. You asked my promise 
that I would not without your consent rid myself of the guide you had 
given me, and that I would let him conduct me through the world. I 
was resolved to keep my promise ; I w'ished also that he should keep 
up your hopes and your tranquillity. I w’as gentle and enduring, but 
I closed both heart and ears against him, and he had at least the 
sense never to attempt the opening them. He led me to walk, 
dressed me, fed me, as if I were a child. I gave up living as I wdshed 
to live; I grew accustomed to see misery, injustice, and madness reign 
over the earth; I looked on men and their institutions, and indignli- 
tion made way for pity in my heart, as I perceived that the misery of 
the oppressed is inferior to that of the oppressors. In my childhood 
I had no love but for victims; now I learned to compassionate their 
executioners, unhappy penitents, who undergo in this generation the 
penalty of crimes committed by them during their previous existences, 
and whom God has condemned to be wicked, a punishment a thous- 
and times severer than it is to be their innocent prey. It is therefore 
that I gave no charities any longer, except to rid myself personally of 
the weight of wealth, without tormenting you by my preachings, 
knowing now that the time to be happy has not arrived, because, to 
speak the language of men, the time to be good is yet afar off.’ 

“ ‘ And now that you are free from this supervisor, as you call him 
—now that you can live in tranquillity, beyond the sight of miseries 
which you extinguish, one by one, as they occur around you — now 
that no one will counteract your generous enthusiasm, will you not 
make an effort with yourself to repel and conquer your mental agita- 
tion ? ’ 


C O N S U E L O. 151 

“ Ask me no further, my beloved parents,’ replied Albert, ‘ for this 
day I will speak no word more.’ 

“ And he kept his promise ; and yet more, for he never unclosed his 
lips for an entire week.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ A FEW words will conclude Albert’s historj^, my dear Porporina, 
for this reason, that unless I were to repeat what I have already told 
you, I have but little more to mention. My cousin’s whole conduct 
during the year and a half wdiich I have spent here, has been one 
continued repetition of the whims and fantasies of which you are 
now aware. The only exception is, that his pretended recollection ot 
bye-gone ages began to assume a really alarming character of reality, 
when Albert suddenly manifested a particular and marvellous faculty, 
of which you have, perhaps, heard tell, but which I certainly had 
never believed till he gave indubitable proofs of it. This faculty is 
called, as I learn, second sight in other countries, and those who pos- 
sess it are often the objects of a sort of religious veneration among 
superstitious persons. As to me, I know not what to think of it: 
but I find in it another reason for never becoining the wife of a man 
who could see all my actions at the distance of a hundred leagues, 
and who could read my very thoughts. Such a woman should at the 
very least be a saint; and how should one be such toward a man who 
seems to be devoted to the devil } ” 

“ You have the faculty,” said Consuelo, “ of jesting at everything, 
and I cannot but admire the merriment with which you talk of things 
that make the very hair stand up on my head. In what does this 
gift of second sight consist ? ” 

“ Albert sees and hears that which no one but he can see or hear. 
When a person whom he likes is about to arrive here, he announces 
his coming, and goes forth to meet him an hour before the time. In 
like manner he retires, and goes and shuts himself up in his own 
room, when he feels the approach of any one who is disagreeable to 
him. 

“ One day when he was walking with my father along the mountain 
path, he stopped short on a sudden, and made a great circuit over 
stones and .through briars, to avoid a certain spot which did not seem, 
however, to have any peculiarity. They returned the same way, and, 
at the expiration of a few minutes, Albert performed the same manoeu- 
vre. My father, pretending to have lost something, endeavored to 
bring him to the foot of a iir tree which appeared to be the object of 
his repugnance. Xot only, however, did Albert avoid approaching it, 
but took pains not so much as to tread upon the shadow which the 
tree projected across the road; and while my father crossed and re- 
crossed the spot, he showed a disturbance and agony of mind that 
were really remarkable. At length, when my father st«)pped close to 
the foot of the tree, Albert uttered an outcry, and called him back 
hastily. It was a lon.g time, however, before he could be induced to 
explain this whim, and it was only when completely overcome by the 
prayers of the whole family, that he declared this tree to be the mark 


152 


C O N S U E L O. 


of a burial place, and asserted that a great crime had been committed 
there. 

“The chaplain thought that if Albert was cognizant of any murder 
committed in that place, it was his duty to be informed of it, in order 
to give Christian burial to those abandoned relics of humanity. 

“ ‘ Beware what you shall do,’ said Albert, with the melancholy 
and sarcastic expression which he sometimes assumes. ‘ The man, 
woman and child whom you will find there, were Hussites, and it is 
the drunkard, Wenceslawa, who caused them to be slaughtered by his 
soldiers, one night when he was hiding in the woods, and expected to 
be observed or betrayed by them.’ ” 

“ No more was said on the subject to my cousin ; but my uncle, 
who was anxious to discover whether this was merely fancy on his 
part, or a species of inspiration, caused the place to be explored by 
night, and the skeletons of a man, a woman and a child were there 
discovered. The man was covered by one of those enormous wooden 
shields worn by the Hussites, which are easy to he recognised by the 
chalice which is engraved upon them, with this device around them 
in Latin — “ O, death,* how bitter is the memory of thee to the unjust 
— how quiet and calm to the man, all whose actions are ordered 
rightly, and with a view to this end.” 

“ These bones were removed and re-interred in a different part of 
the forest; and when Albert passed several times close to the foot of 
the fir tree, my father observed that he had not the least repugnance 
to walking over the spot, although it had been carefully filled up as 
before with sand and stones, so that no traces w'ere left of what had 
occurred. He did not even remember the emotion which he had tes- 
tified, and had some trouble in recalling it to mind when mentioned 
to him. 

“ ‘ You must be mistaken, father,’ he said, ‘ and it must have been 
in some other place that I was warned. I am certain that there is 
nothing here. For I have neither chill nor pain, nor trembling of 
my body.’ 

“ My aunt is much inclined to ascribe this poetic power to the es- 
pecial favor of Providence. But Albert is so gloomy, so unhappy, and 
suffers so much from it, that it is difficult to conceive to what end 
Providence should have endowed him with a gift so fatal. 

“If I believed in the existence of the devil, the chaplain’s sugges- 
tion would leave it on far more reasonable grounds, who lays ail Al- 
bert’s hallucinations to his charge. My uncle Christian, who is a 
man of more sense and firmness in his religious views, sees for all 
these things explanations which are probable enough on common- 
sense considerations. He thinks that, notwithstanding all the pains 
the Jesuits took for so many years, after the Thirty Years’ War, in 
forming all the heretics in Bohemia, and especially in the vicinity of 
the Giant’s Castle, — in spite of the close investigation made in every 
nook after the death of my aunt Wanda, there must have remained 
in some corner, of which no one was aware, some historical docu- 
ments which have been found by Albert— that the reading of those 
unlucky papers must have taken strange effect on his diseased imag- 
ination — and that he attributes, unconsciously of the self-deceit, to 
those wonderful memories of a prior existence on earth, the impres- 
Bion which he has reeeived from documents now wholly unknown, 

o A French version of Ecclesiasticus xli, 1, 3. 


C (> iN S U E L O. 


153 


which he, nevertheless, repeats with the minute details and close con- 
nection of historic chronicles. By these means are easily accounted 
for all the strange tales he tells us, as well as his disappearance for 
days and weeks together; for it is right to tell you that these disap- 
pearances have several times recurred, and that it is impossible to 
suppose that he spends the time out of the castle. Whenever he has 
disappeared it has proved utterly impossible to discover him. and we are 
certain tliat no peasant has ever given him either food or shelter. We 
know also that he lias fits of lethargy which keep him confined to his 
chamber for whole days; and when the doors are forced, or any dis- 
turbance is made about him, he falls into convulsions so that great 
care is now taken not to disturb hitn. Free scope is now given to his 
lethargic seizures, during which extraordinary things seem to pass 
through his mind; but no sound, no outward agitation, betray them, 
and it is from his conversation only that we learn their character. 
"When he recovers, he is calmer and more reasonable for a few (lays, 
hut by degrees his agitation returns, and goes on increasing until the 
recurrence of his seizure, the period and duration of which he ap- 
pears to foresee; for when they are long, he either retires to some 
distant place, or takes refuge ‘in his hiding place, which we imagine 
must be some vault of the castle, or some cavern in this mountain, 
known to himself alone. Up to this time, it has been impossible to 
discover him, which is the more difficult that he will not endure to be 
watched, and that to be followed, observed, or even seriously ques- 
tioned, renders him seriously ill. Thus the plan has been adopted of 
leaving him entirely free, and we have now accustomed ourselves to 
regard these disappearances, which were at first so fearfully alarming, 
as favorable crises in his malady; when they come about, my aunt is 
miserable, and my uncle prays, but no one stirs; and as for me, I 
confess that I have become very much hardened on this account. 
Vexation has brought in its train weariness and disgust. I should 
prefer death to marriage with this maniac. I admit his noble quali- 
ties; but, although you may think that I ought to pay no regard 
to his fantasies, I confess that 1 am irritated by them as the torment 
of my life, and of my whole family.” 

“ That seems to me a little unjust, my dear baroness,'’ said Consu- 
elo. How repugnant soever you may feel to becoming the wife of 
Count Albert, I can well conceive; but how you should lose all inter- 
est in him, is beyond my comprehension.” 

“ It is because I cannot avoid believing that there is something vol- 
untary in this man’s madness. It is certain that he has great strength 
of character; and on a thousand occasions, he has much command 
over himself. He has the power of retarding, when he chooses it, the 
approach of these attacks. I have seen him master them with great 
power when persons seemed indisposed to treat them seriously. On 
the contrary, when he sees us disposed to credulity or fear, he seems 
to desire, by his extravagances, to produce an effect upon us, and he 
abuses our weakness toward him. It is on this account that I feel 
bitterly toward him, and often ask Beelzebub, his patron, to come and 
rid us of him, once for all.” 

“ These are very cruel jokes,” said Consuelo, “ to be used concern- 
ing a man so unhappy, and one whose affliction seems to me roman- 
tic and poetical, rather than marvellous or repulsive.” 

“ Take it as you please, my dear Porporina,” resumed Amelia. 
“Admire his sorceries as much as you please, but I do as our chaplain 


C O N S IT E L O, 


154 

does, who commends his soul to God, and seeks not to comprehend. 
I take shelter in the bosom of reason, and do not attempt to explain 
to myself that which, I doubt not, has a very simple explanation, 
though it is utterly unknown to all of us at present. The only thing 
that is certain about my unfortunate cousin is, that his reason has 
completely packed its baggage — that his imagination has unfolded 
within his brain wings so wide, that the case is bursting with their ex- 
pansion. And, since I must speak out clearly and say the word which 
my poor uncle Cbristian was compelled to utter in tears at the feet of 
the Empress Maria Theresa, who will not be satisfied with half an- 
swers, or half affirmations, in three words, ‘ Albert Rudolstadt is mad 
— deranged,’ if you think that a more genteel expression.” 

Consuelo replied only by a deep sigh. Amelia appeared to her at 
that moment a hateful and iron-hearted person. She strove to excuse 
her in her own eyes, by conjuring np to herself all tliat she must 
have suffered during eighteen months of a life so sad, yet filled with 
emotions so strange and varied. Then recollecting her own misfor- 
tunes — “ Ah ! ” she said to herself, “ why cannot I lay tbe blame of 
Anzoleto’s faults to madness. Had he fallen into delirium in the 
midst of the intoxications and deceptions of his debut, I feel, for my 
own part, that I should have loved him no less; and 1 should only 
ask to know that his infidelity and ingratitude arose from frenzy, to 
adore him as before, and to fly to his succor.” 

Some days elapsed without Albert’s manner, conversation, or de- 
meanor, giving the slightest confirmation to his cousin’s assertions, 
relative to the derangement of his intellect. But, on a day when the 
chaplain chanced unintentionally to cross him, he began talking inco- 
herently, and then, as if he became himself aware of it, left the 
drawing-room abruptly, and went away to shut himself up in the se- 
clusion of his own chamber. All expected that he would remain 
there some time; but witiiin an hour he returned, pale and disorder- 
ed, moved himself languidly from chair to chair, and kept hovering 
around Consuelo, although he did not appear to take any more notice 
of her than usual. At length he retreated to the embrasure of a 
window, in which he sat down with his face buried in his hands, and 
so continued wholly motionless. 

It was now about the time at which Amelia was used to take her 
music lesson, and she now desired to do so, as she whispered to Con- 
suelo, if it were only for the purpose of driving away that ill-omened 
face, which banished all her gaiety, and seemed, as she said in her 
fancy, to fill the very room with odors of the grave. “ I think,” said 
Consuelo, in answer to her, “ that we shall do better to go up to your 
room, where we can make your spinet serve us for accompaniment. 
If it be true that music is disagreeable to Count Albert, to what end 
increase his disturbance, and by that means the sufferings of his 
parents?” And to this consideration Amelia having yielded, they 
went np together to her chamber, the door of which they left ajar, 
because there was some smoke in the room. Amelia wanted to have 
her own way, as usual, and to sing loud, showy cavatinas ; but this 
time Consuelo showed that she was in earnest, and made her try 
some very simple movements and some serious passages from Pales- 
tina’s sacred songs. The young baroness began to yawn, grew fretful, 
and declared that the music was barbarous, and would put her to 
sleep. 

“ That is because you do not understand it,” replied Consuelo. 


CONSUELO. 


155 


Suffer me to sing you a few airs, to show you how admirably it is 
adapted for the voice, in addition to the grandeur and sublimity of its 
thoughts and suggestions.” 

She seated herself at the spinet, and began to sing. It was the 
first time she had awakened the eclioes of tl)e old chWeau, and she 
found the bare and lofty walls so admirably adapted for sound, that 
she gave herself up entirely to the pleasure which she experienced. 
Her voice, long mute, since the last evening when she sang at San 
Samuel — that evening when she fainted, broken down by fatigue and 
sorrow — instead of being impaired by so much suffering and agitation, 
was more beautiful, more marvelous, more thrilling than ever. 
Amelia was at the same time transported and affrighted. She was 
at length beginning to understand that she did not kiiow anything, 
and that perhaps she could never learn anything, when the pale and 
pensive figure of Albert suddenly appeared in the middle of the 
apartment, in front of the two young girls, and remained motionless 
and apparently deeply moved until the end of the piece. It was only 
then that Consuelo perceived him, and was somewhat frightened. 
But Albert, falling on his knees, and raising towards her his large 
dark eyes, swimming in tears, exclaimed in Spanish, without the least 
German accent, “ O Consuelo ! Consuelo ! I have at last found 
thee ! ” 

“Consuelo?” cried the astonished girl, expressing herself in the 
same language, “ Why, senor, do you call me by that name?” 

“ I call you Consolation,” replied Albert, still speaking in Spanish, 
“ because a consolation has been promised to my desolate life, and be- 
cause you are that consolation which God at last grants to my solitary 
and gloomy existence.” 

“ I did not think,” said Amelia, with suppressed rage, “ that music 
could have produced so prodigious an effect on my dear cousin. 
Nina’s voice is formed to accomplish wonders, I confess; but I may 
remark to both of you, that it would be more polite towards me, and 
more according to general etiquette, to use a language which I can 
understand.” 

Albert appeared not to have heard a word of what his betrothed 
had said. He continued kneeling, and looking at Consuelo, with eyes 
beaming with delight and wonder, and reiterated in a soft, low tone, 
the words, “ Consuelo ! Consuelo ! ” 

“ What is this name that he is calling you?” asked Amelia of her 
companion, somewhat angrily. 

“ He is asking me.” replied Consuelo, now a good deal embarrassed, 
for a Spanish air with whidi I am unacquainted; and I think, more- 
over, that we had better stop where we are, for the music appears to 
affect him to-day far too strongly.” And with these words she arose 
to leave the room. 

“ Consuelo,” repeated Albert, in the Spanish tongue, “ if you de- 
part from me, my life is over, and I will never return to the earth for 
evermore.” And as he spoke thus, he fell at her feet and fainted, 
w'hile the two frightened girls called servants to his aid, who carried 
him away to his own room. 


156 


CONSUELO, 


CHAPTEK XXXIl. 

Count Albert was gently deposited on his own bed, while two of 
the servants who had broiiglit him thither, went in search of the 
chaplain, who was in some sort the family physician, and for Count 
Christian, who had left directions that he should be informed of the 
slightest affection of his son, while the young ladies setoff to find the 
canoness. Before, however, any one of these several persons had re- 
turned to his bed, though each and all made the best speed, Albert 
had disappeared. His door was discovered open, his bed scarcely dis- 
arranged by tbe momentary repose which he had taken upon it, and 
his chamber in its accustomed order. He was sought for everyvvheie, 
as was always the case when events of this nature occurred. He was 
nowhere to be found; whereupon the family at once relapsed into 
one of those states of gloomy resignation w’hich had been described 
to Consuelo by Amelia, and all appeared to be awaiting, in that dumb 
consternation, the expression of which they no longer sought to con- 
ceal, the return, rather to be hoped for than expected, of the young 
and extraordinary baron. 

Although Consuelo would have desired to make no allusion to his 
parents of the singular scene which had been transacted in the cham- 
ber of the young baroness, the latter failed not to recount to them, in 
the warmest and most vived colors, the instantaneous and potent ef- 
fect which Porporina’s song had produced on her cousin. “ It is then 
very certain that music has a bad effect on him,” observed the chap- 
lain. 

“ If that be the case,” Consuelo answered him, “ I will take good 
heed that he shall not hear me: and when I shall be at work with our 
young baroness, we shall take heed to shut ourselves up so closely that 
no sound may by chance reach the ears of Count Albert.” 

“ It wdll be very irksome to you, my dear young lady,” said the can- 
oness. “Ah! it is not in my power to render your sojourn here 
agreeable to you.” 

“ I am willing to participate both in your sorrows and your pleas- 
ures; and I seek no other satisfaction than that of being permitted to 
share in both, through your confidence and friendship.” 

“ You are a noble girl,” the canoness made answer, offering her 
long and emaciated hand to her pressure; “ but listen to me, I am of 
opinion that music is not in reality injurious to my dear Albert. Ac- 
cording to what I have gathered from Amelia of this morning’s scene, 
I judge contrariwise— that he was too powerfully delighted. It may 
even be that his illness was occasioned by the too sudden suspension 
of your admirable melodies. What said he to you in Spanish ? That 
is a tongue which he speaks thoroughly, as I am told, with many 
others which he acquired during his travels with prodigious quickness. 
If asked how he retains in memory so many languages, he replies, 
that he knew them before he was born, and remembers them — this 
one, because he spoke it twelve hundred years ago— that, when he 
was at the crusades, or I know not where. Alas! vou will hear 
strange narratives of his anterior existences, as he calls them. But 
translate for me iiito our German language, which you already speak 
so well, the meaning of what he said to you in your language, which 
none of us knows.” 


C O N S U E L O, 


157 


Consuelo was for a moment embarrassed to a point which she 
could not explain, even to herself. She determined, however, to tell 
nearly the whole truth, explaining that Count Albert had begged her 
to remain with him, declaring that she afforded him exceeding consol- 
ation. 

“Consolation!” said Amelia, who was not lacking in quickness. 
“ Did he use that word ? You know, aunt, the peculiar signification 
which he attaches to that word.” 

“ Truly it is a word which he uses often,” said Wenceslawa, “ and 
to which he appears to attach a prophetic meaning; but I do not see 
any reason for applying any other than its ordinary meaning to the 
use of it, on that occasion.” 

“ But what means the word which he repeated to you so often, dear 
Porporina,” persisted Amelia. “ I thought he used one word very 
often, though in my agitation I lost its sound.” 

“ I did not understand it myself,” said Consuelo, not speaking 
falsely without an effort. 

“ My dear Nina,” Amelia whispered to her, “ you are as quick as 
you are prudent. I am not myself quite an idiot, and I perfectly com- 
prehend that you are the mystical consolation promised to Albert by 
the vision, during his thirtieth year. Do not endeavor to conceal from 
me that you have understood it as I — for I assure you I am in nowise 
envious of a mission so celestial.” 

“ Listen to me, dear Porporina,” interposed the canoness, who had 
been musing for a minute or two. “ It has ever been a fancy of ours 
that when Albert- disappears from us, as I might say magically, he is 
hidden not far from us, perhaps in this very house, in some secret 
place known to himself alone. I know not why, but I have an idea 
that were you to sing now, he might hear you and return to us.” 

“ Could I but suppose so,” said Consuelo, doubtfully. 

“ Suppose, however, if Albert be so near us, that music augments 
his delirium,” interposed Amelia, who was really jealous. 

“ At all events,” exclaimed Count Christian, “ it is an experiment 
that must be tried. I have heard that Farinelli had a charm in his 
song to dissipate the black melancholy of the King of Spain, as had 
young David to appease the fury of Saul by the witchery of his harp. 
Make the trial, then, Porporina; a soul so pure as yours can have 
none but beneficent influences on all around.” 

Consuelo, who was now touched, sat down at the piano and began 
to sing a Spanish canticle in honor of our Lady of Consolation, which 
her mother had taught her in her childhood, beginning with the words 
“ Consuelo de mi alma — O solace of my soul,” &c. She sang it so 
purely and with so marked an accent of piety, that the owner of the 
old manor-house almost forgot the subject of their anxieties in the 
sentiments of faith and hope which the music excited within them. 
Deep silence dwelt within and without the castle wall; the doors and 
windows had been thrown open, in order to give its widest and fullest 
scope to the voice of Consuelo, and the moon was pouring her pale 
bluish lustre through the embrasures of the large windows. All was 
calm; and a sort of serenity of soul had succeeded to despair in the 
hearts of all — when a deep long sigh, like that of a human being, was 
heard at the close of Consuelo’s last tones. That sigh was so long 
drawn and so well defined, that every person present heai-d it, even 
the Baron Frederick, who startled from his dose and half awoke, as 
if he had been suddenly called. Every one turned pale, and all gazed 


C O N S U E L o, 


158 

each at the other, as if to say — “ It is not I ; is it yon who did that? 
— and Consiielo, who fancied that the sigh was uttered close beside 
her at the piano, though she sat apart from all the family, was so ter- 
rified that literally she could not speak. 

“ Mercy of heaven ! ” cried the caiioness aghast; “ seewied not that 
sigh to exhale from the bowels of the eai th? ’’ 

“ Say rather, aunt,” exclaimed Amelia, “ seemed it not to pass 
over our heads like the night-wind? ” 

“Perhaps some screech-owl, attracted by the lights, flitted through 
the room while we were all suspended on the music, and we caught 
the rustle of his pinions as he passed through the windows.” Such 
w'as the chaplain’s explanation, but for all that, his teeth chattered 
M'ith very fear. 

“ Perhaps it is Albert’s dog! ” said the Count Christian. 

“ Cynabre is not here,” replied Amelia; “ Wherever Albert is, Cy- 
nabre is with him there. Some one hereabout, undoubtedly, sighed 
strangely. If I were not afraid of going to the window, I would go 
and see if some one be not listening in the garden; but were my life 
at stake, I liave not strength to do it.” 

“ For a person so free from all prejudice,” said Consuelo with alow 
voice and a forced smile; “for one boasting herself a little French 
philosopher, you are not very courageous, dear baroness. I will see 
if I cannot prove myself more so.” 

“Do not try it, my dear,” answered Amelia aloud; “and don’t 
aftect to be brave, for you are as pale as death now, and you will be ill 
the next thing.” 

“ What silly whims you indulge in, my dear Amelia,” answered 
Count Christian, directing liis steps firmly and gravely to the open 
window. — “There is no one,” he said, after looking out; and then 
added, after shutting the casement — “it seems to me that real ail- 
ments are not keen enough for the excited fancies of women; and 
that they must always add the creatures of their own brains to real 
sorrows which need no addition. There is assuredly nothing mysteri- 
ous in that sigh. Some one of us, moved by the signora’s fine sing- 
ing, probably without self-consciousness, uttered that deep-drawn as- 
piration. Perhaps it is I who did so, yet I know it not. Ah, Porpo- 
rina, though you succeed not in curing Albert, at the least you have 
discovered how to pour a heavenly balm into wounds as deeply seated 
as his own.” 

The words of this good old man, who was ever calm and self-re- 
strained amid the deepest domestic troubles, were in themselves in 
some sort a healing balm, and as such Consuelo felt them. She felt 
almost inclined to cast herself on her knees before him, and implore 
his benediction, such a benediction as she had received from Porpora 
before leaving him, and from Marcello, on that brightest day of her 
existence, which had been to her but the begir ning of an unbroken 
series of misfortunes. 


CONSUELO. 


159 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Seveeal days passed over without their hearing any news of 
Count Albert; and Consuelo, to whom this position of things ap- 
peared dismal in the extreme, was astonished to see the Eudolstadt 
family bear so frightful a state of uncertainty without evincing eitlier 
despair or much impatience. Familiarity Avith the most cruel anxie- 
ties, produce a sort of apparent apathy, or else real hardness of heart, 
wliicli wounds and almost irritates those minds whose sensibility lias 
not yet been blunted by long-continued misfortune. Consuelo, sub- 
ject to a sort of nightmare in the midst of these doleful impressions 
and inexplicable occurrences, was astonished to see that the order of 
the house was hardly distuibed, that the canoness was equally vigi- 
lant, the baron equally eager for the chase, the chaplain regular as 
ever iu the same devotional exercises, and Amelia gay and ti ifling as 
usual. The cheerful vivacity of the latter was what particularly 
offended Consuelo. She could not conceive how the baroness could 
laugh and play, while she hei-self could hardly read or work with her 
needle. Tlie canoness, however, employed herself in embroidering 
an altar fiont for the chapel of the castle. It was a masterpiece of 
patience, exquisite workmanship, and neatness. Ilaidly had she 
made the tour of the liouse, when she returned to seat herself at her 
work, were it only to add a few stitches, whil waiting to be called by 
new cares to the barns, the kitchens, or the cellars. One should have 
seen with how much importance these little concerns were treated, 
and how that fragile being was hurried along, at a pace always regu- 
lar, always dignified and measured, but never slackened, through hiJ 
the corners of her little empire; crossing a thousand times daily in all 
possible directions the narrow and monotonous surface of her domes- 
tic demesnes. What also seemed strange to Consuelo was the respect 
and admiration which the family and country iu general attached to 
this indefatigable housekeeping — a pursuit, which the old lady seemed 
to have embraced with such ardor and jealous observance. To see 
her parsimoniously regulating the most trivial affairs, one would 
have thouglit her covetous and distrustful; and yet on important oc- 
casions she displayed a soul deeply imbued with noble and generous 
sentiments. But these excellent qualities, especially her motherly 
affections, wliich gave her in Consuelo’s eyes so sympathizing and ven- 
erable an air, woidd not of themselves have been sufficient iu tlie ey€*s 
of others to elevate her to the rank of the heroine of the family. 
She required, besides, the far more important qualification of a scru- 
pulous attention to tlie trifling details of the household, to cause her 
to be appreciated for what slie really was, notwithstanding what lias 
been said, a woman of strong sense and high moral feeling. Not a 
day passed that Count Christian, the baron, or the chaplain, did not 
repeat every time she turned her back, “ How much wisdom, how 
much courage, how much strength of mind does the canoness dis- 
play!” Amelia herself, not distinguishing the true and ennobling 
purpOvSe of life, in the midst of puerilities which, under another form, 
constituted the whole of hers, did not venture to disparage her aunt 
under this point of view, the only one that, iu Consuelo’s eyes, cast a 
shadow upon the bright light vviiich shone from the pure and lovjug 
soul of the hunchback VVeiiceslawa. To the born upon :he 


C O N S U E L O. 


160 

highway and thrown helpless on the world without any other maste: 
or any other protection than her own genius, so much care, so much 
activity and intensity of thought to produce such miserable results 
as the preservation and maintenance of certain objects and certain 
provisions, appeared an absurd perversion of human intelligence. 
She who possessed none and desired none of the world’s riches, was 
grieved to see a lovely and generous soul suffer itself to be absorbed 
wholly in the business of looking after wheat, wine, wood, hemp, 
cattle, and furniture. If they had offered her all these goods, so 
much desired by the greater part of mankind, she would have asked, 
instead, a moment of her former happiness, her rags, the clear and 
lovely sky above her head, her fresh 'young love and her liberty upon 
the lagunes of Venice — all that was stamped on her memory in more 
and more glowing colors, in proportion as she receded from that gay 
and laughing horizon to penetrate into the frozen sphere which is 
called real life ! 

She felt her heart sink in her bosom when at nightfall she saw the 
old canoness, followed by Hans, take an immense bunch of keys, and 
make the circuit of all the buildings and all the courts, closing the least 
openings, and examining the smallest recesses into wliich an evil-doer 
could have crept; as if no one could sleep in security within those 
foi’tnidable walls, until the water of the torrent, which was restrained 
behind a neighboring dam came rushing and roaring into the ti’enches 
of the chateau, whilst in addition the gates were locke<i and the draw- 
bridge raised. Consnelo had so often slept, in her distant wanderings 
by the roadside, with no covering save her mother’s torn cloak thrown 
over her for shelter! She had so often welcomed the dawn upon the 
snowy flagstones of Venice, washed by the waves, without having a 
moment’s fear for her modesty, the only wealth she cared to preserve! 

“ Alas!” said she, “ how unhappy are these people in having so many 
things to take care of! Security is the aim of their pursuits by day 
and night, and so carefully do they seek it, that they have no time to 
find or enjoy it.” Like Amelia, therefore, she already pined in her 
gloomy prison— that dark and sombre Castle of the Giants, where the 
sun himself seemed afraid to penetrate, lint while the young baroness 
only thought of fetes, of dresses, and whispering suitors, Consnelo 
dreamt of wandering beside her native wave-washed shores — a thicket 
or a fisher-boat for her palace, the boundless heavens for her covering,- 
and the starry firmament to gaze on ! 

Forced by the cold of the climate, and the closing of the castle 
gates, to change the Venetian custom which she had retained, of 
watching during a part of the night, and rising late in the morning, 
she at last succeeded, after many hours of sleeplessness, agitation, and 
melancholy dreams, in submitting to the austere law of the cloister, 
and recompensed herself by undertaking, alone, several morning 
walks in the neighboring mountain. The gates were opened and the 
bridges lowered at the first dawn of day, and while Amelia, secretly 
occupied in reading novels during one half the night, slept until 
awakened by the first breakfast bell, Porporina sallied forth to breathe 
the fresh air, and brush the early dew from the herbage of the forest. 
One morning, as she descended softly on tiptoe, in order to awaken 
no one, she mistook the direction she ought to take, among the num- 
berless staircases and interminable corridors of the chateau, of which 
she had not yet informed herself. Embarrassed in a maze of galleries 
ftiid passages, she passed through a sort of antechamber, which she 


CONSTJELO. 


161 

W never seen before, still expecting to find a way through it into the 
garden. But she merely reached the entrance of a little chapel, built 
ill a beautiful but antique style, and dimly lighted from above by a 
circular window of stained glass in the vaulted ceiling, which threw a 
feeble light upon the centre of the pavement, and left the extremities 
of the building in mysterious gloom. The sun was still below the 
horizon, and the morning grey and foggy. At first, Consuelo thought 
herself in the chapel of the chateau, where she had heard mass the 
preceding Monday. She knew that the chapel opened upon the gar- 
dens; but before crossing it to go out, she wished to honor the sanc- 
tuary of prayer, and knelt upon the first step of the altar. But, as it 
often happens to artists to be preoccupied with outward objects in 
spite of their attempts to ascend into the sphere of abstract ideas, her 
prayer could not absorb her sufficiently to prevent her casting a glance 
of curiosity around her; and she soon perceived that she was not in 
the chapel, but in a place to which she had not before penetrated. 
It was neither the same shrine nor the same ornaments. Although 
this unknown chapel was very small, she could hardly as yet distin- 
guish objects around her; but what struck Consuelo most was a 
marble statue kneeling before the altar, in that cold and severe atti- 
tude in whicli all figures on tombs were formerly represented. She 
concluded that she was in a place reserved for the sepulchres of some 
distinguished ancestors, and having become somewhat fearful and 
superstitious since her residence in Bohemia, she shortened her 
prayer, and rose to retire. 

But just as she was turning a last half-timid glance toward the 
kneeling statue which was scarce ten paces distant, she saw the mar- 
ble figure unclasp its stony fingers, and make the sign of the cross. 

Consuelo was on the point of fainting, yet she lacked power to 
withdraw her glaring eyes from that horrible statue. What held her 
firm in the conviction that it was but a statue, was perceiving that it 
did not hear the outcry which broke from her lips, and that it again 
folded its massive white hands, all unconscious in appearance of any 
exterior world. 


CHAPTER XXXiy. 

Had the ingenious and imaginative Anne Radcliffe found herself 
in the place of the candid and unskilful narrator of this true narra- 
tive, she would not have allowed so good an opportunity to escape, 
of conducting you, fair reader, through corridors, trap-doors, winding 
staircases, and subterranean passages, through halt-a-dozen flowery 
and attractive volumes, to reveal to you only at the seventh, all the 
mysteries of her skilful labors. But the unsuperstitious reader, whom 
it is for me to entertain, would not probably lend herself so willingly, 
at the present period, to the innocent stratagem of the romancer. 
Besides, as it might be difficult to make her believe them, we will give 
her the key to all ‘our mysteries, as quickly as we can. And to ex- 
plain two of them at once, we will confess that Consuelo, after some 
moments of self-collectedness, recognised, in the animated statue be- 
fore her eyes, the old Count Christian, who was mentally reciting his 
morning prayers in his oratory, and in the sigh of compunction 
10 


162 


OONSUELO. 


which unconsciously escaped from him, the same mysterious sigh 
which she thought she had heard close beside her, on the evening 
when she sang the hymn to Our Lady ot Consolation. 

A little ashamed of her fears, Consuelo remained rooted to her 
place by veneration, and a dislike to interrupt a prayer so fervent. 
Nothing could be more solemn or more touching than to behold that 
old man, prostrate upon the stone pavement, offering his heart to 
God at the opening of the day, and steeped in a kind of heavenly ec- 
stacy, which appeared to close his senses to all perception of the out- 
ward world. His noble features did not betray any emotion of grief. 
A gentle breeze, penetrating by the door which Consuelo had left 
open, agitated the semi-circle of silvery hair which still remained 
upon the back part of his head, and his massive brow, bald to the 
very crown, wore the lustrous yellowish hue of antique marble. Clad 
in an old-fashioned morning-gown of white flannel, falling about his 
slender frame like the frock of a monk, in stiff and massive draperies, 
gave him a certain resemblance to a monumental statue, so that 
Consuelo had to look at him twice after he had resumed his fixed at- 
titude, to assure herself that her first impression was illusory. 

After gazing at him attentively for a while, and changing her own 
position so as to see him in a better light, she inquired of her own 
heart, half unwittingly, still touched and imbued with veneration, 
whether such prayer as this old man put up to heaven could really, be 
efficacious to tlie recovery of his hapless son, and whether a spirit so 
passively subjected to dogmatic rules, could at any time possess the 
warmth, the appreciation and the zealous love which Albeit looked to 
find witliin the soul of his father. There was something mystical in 
the very soul of Albert. He also had led a life of devotion and con- 
templation, but according to all that Consuelo had heard from Ame- 
lia, according to all that she had beheld herself, since her abode in 
the castle, Albert had ever lacked the counsellor, the guide and the 
friend, who might have directed his imagination aright, softened the 
over-excitement of his feelings, and turned to tenderness the rugged 
fervor of his austere virtue. 81ie saw that of necessity he must have 
felt himself alone among a family resolute either to contradict, or 
silently to pity him as either heretic or madman ; she even felt some- 
thing of the kind herself, in the half impatience which arose within 
her at sight of that impassive and interminable prayer put up to 
Heaven, as if for the purpose of casting upon Heaven the cares which 
it was for those, who prayed, inactive, to take themselves in the search 
after the fugitive, his recovery, his persuasion, and his restoration to 
reason. For there must, she thought, be some deep-rooted despair, to 
wrench a youtig man, so affectionate and kindly-natured, from the 
bosom of his friends, to render him altogether self-forgetful, and even 
to destroy within him the knowledge of the uneasiness and sorrow 
which his conduct must needs cause to his nearest and his dearest. 

The course which they had fallen upon of never ai^uing with him, 
and of affecting calmness while feeliu'g consternation, seemed to the 
firm and well-balanced mind of the girl either a culpable ])lece of 
neglect or a blunder the most obvious. She saw in it something of 
that peculiar pride and self-conceit which is imposed by a narrow and 
intolerant creed on people who consent to wear the bands of self- 
righteousness, and who can see but one road to heaven, and that 
traced by the undeviating finger of the priest. 

“Heavenly powers!” exclaimed Consuelo, half praying mentally; 


CONSUELO. 


163 


“ is it possible that the expansive, ardent, charitable soul of Albert, 
devoid as it is of human passions, can be less acceptable in your sight 
than those patient and slothful spirits which submit themselves to the 
injustice of the world, and see truth and justice daily violated on this 
earth? Could he be acting under Satanic inspiration, who when a 
child at the first dawning of intellect, gave his toys and decorations 
to the children of poverty ? and who, when early reflection began to 
mature, would have abandoned all his wealth for the consolation of 
human suffering? And can these mild and gentle nobles, who de- 
plore the woes of others with barren tears, or solace them with inef- 
fective griefs, be wise in the belief that they are gaining heaven by 
mere prayers and acts of submission to the Emperor or the Pope, 
rather than by great w’orks and greater sacrifices? No, Albert is not 
a madman. A voice cries to me from the bottom of my heart that he 
is the finest type of a good, just man that ever had its being from the 
hands of Nature. If he have his painful visions, if fantastic ideas 
have obscured his reason — if even, as they suppose, he be deranged, 
it is blind contradiction, it is the craving for sympathy — it is the lone- 
liness of the heart, that have brought him to a condition deplorable. 
Have not 1 seen the cell in which Tasso was immured for a madman, 
and felt that what they called madness might have been but the in- 
dignation of genius burning beneath oppression? Have not I heard 
in the saloons of Venice the august saints and martyrs of Christianity 
treated as fools and madmen — they whose histoiies called forth my 
tears and awoke wild musings in my childhood? And what right 
have these folk, this pious old man, this timid canoness, who believe, 
nevertheless, in the miracles of saints and the genius of poets, to 
pronounce on their child a sentence of shame and reprobation which 
should attach to knaves and weak fools only? Mad I no. But mad- 
ness is horrible, repulsive — it must be God’s judgment on great crimes. 
How should a man become mad by excess of virtue ? And were it 
so, I should deem the being, bowed beneath the weight of a misery so 
unmerited, entitled to the respect no less than to the pity of men; 
and had I become mad— had I blasphemed when I became awake to 
Anzoleto’s infidelity, should I have lost all right to the encourage- 
ment and spiritual support of Christians? Would they have cast me 
out, or let me die in the street saying — ‘There is no help for her, 
through over-misery she has lost her reason?’ Yet it is thus they 
treat "this hapless Albert. They feed him, clothe him, tend him, ren- 
der him, in fact, the alms of a puerile affection. They converse not 
with him — if he question, they hold silence; if he seeks to persuade, 
they bow the head, or turn aw'ay from him in horror. When his 
very disgust of solitude, drives him into solitudes deeper yet, they 
await his return, praying God to watch over him and to bring him 
hack to them safe and sound, as though the ocean rolled between 
him and the objects of his affection. And yet they believe he is not 
far off— they call on me to sing in order to awaken him, as though 
he slept a lethargic sleep in the thickness of some wall, or within the 
cavity of some huge hollow tree. And yet they have neither explored 
the secrets of this antique dwelling, nor hollowed out the entrails of 
this cavernous rocky region. Ah! were I Albert’s aunt or father, I 
W’ould not have left stone on stone until I had recovered him; not a 
tree should have stood erect in the forest till he had been restored to 
my arms.” 

Absorbed in sad musings, Consuelo had ssued noiselessly from 


164 


CONSUELO. 


Count Christian’s oratory — had found, she knew not how, the gaU 
into the country. She wandered among the forest paths, seeking the 
wildest and most intricate, led by romantic heroism, and burning with 
the desire of finding Albert. 

Yet in all this, there was nothing of vulgar attraction, or imprudent 
fantasy prompting her to do this. It M^as not the handsome and en- 
thusiastic youth, whom she sought to encounter, but the hapless no- 
ble, whom she hoped to save or at least to soothe ; as she would have 
done for an old and hapless hermit, or as a child which had strayed 
from its mother. She mused, and undertook her pilgrimage, as Joan 
of Arc mused, and undertook to deliver her country. Nor did she 
dream that such a project would be regarded with ridicule, or that 
Amelia herself, led by the cry of kinship, would have failed to attempt 
or succeed in the same. 

She walked on rapidly, undeterred by any obstacle. The silence 
of the mighty woods neither saddened nor alarmed her spirits. She 
saw the slot of wolves in the sand, yet felt no apprehensions of their 
gaunt and famished pack. She fancied herself impelled by a protect- 
ing hand from heaven. Knowing Tasso by heart, so often had she sung 
him whole nights through on thelagimes, she fancied herself sheltered 
by a talisman, as the noble Ubaldo in search of Rinaldo through the 
perils of the enchanted forest. Swift and light-footed she passed 
through briars, over rocks, her eyes beaming and her cheeks glowing 
with a sort of secret pride. Never in her days of scenic heroism had 
she looked handsomer, yet she thought no more of herself at this in- 
stant than she did when she trod the boards of the theatre. 

From time to time she paused to think and recollect herself; doubt- 
ing what she should do in case of meeting him; conscious that she 
knew nothing of the deep mysteries which disturbed him ; aware that 
she saw but dimly through a poetic veil, and with eyes dazzled by 
these novel visions. Again she felt something more than ardor and 
devotion to bring back to the society of the common-place people 
among whom he had lived a man so superior to herself, a madman so 
wise and learned, while she knew herself to lack the eloquence, the 
learning to persuade so singular a being. She went, however, confi- 
dent that heaven would inspire her at the moment of need, and 
though convinced that she was destitute of historic and religious lore, 
she was yet convinced that there was more power, as she half whis- 
pered to herself, in the resolution of her own sympathizing heart, 
than in all the studied doctrine of his parent, kind and gentle as they 
were, yet undecided and cold as the mists on the snow-wreaths of 
their native mountains. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

After going and returning many times to and fro amid the wind- 
ing paths of that wilderness, scattered at random over a hilly and 
broken district, she came at length upon an elevation, so covered with 
splintered rocks and ruined w'alls, that it w^as not easy to discern 
whether the hand of man or of time had been the most destructive. 
It was no more now than a hill of fragments, where once had stood a 


C O N S U E L O, 


165 


village, burned by the orders of the terrible blind man, the dread v^al- 
ixtin chief, John Ziska, from whom Albert imagined himself to be 
descended, and perhaps was so in reality. During a dark and gloomy 
night, so ran the tale, that fierce and indefatigable warrior, having 
given orders to his troops to attack the Giant’s Castle, then garri- 
soned for the king of Saxony, had heard one of his soldiers exclaim 
angrily, “ that cursed blind man fancies that every one can do with- 
out daylight as W'ell as himself,” whereat, turning to one of his disci- 
ples who drew his car, enquired according to the guidance of memory, 
or that instinct which directed him in lieu of the other senses, “ Is 
there not a village hereaway? ” and being answered in the affirma- 
tive, he desired the mutinous soldier to go at once and fire the village, 
telling him that the flames would give ample light by which to man- 
oeuvre and to fight. The terrible order was given and executed, and 
aided by the glare of the burning village, the Taborites stormed the 
Giant’s Castle, and Ziska was in quiet possession of it before the 
morning. On the following day, at dawn, he was informed that in 
the midst of the ruins of the burnt village, there was standing on a sort 
of a platform, whence the soldiers had observed the attack of the for- 
tress, a young and thriving oak, not a leaf of which had been withered 
by the heat, having escaped destruction, as it would seem, owing to 
its roots being watered by a deep cistern beneath its shade. 

“ I know the cistern well,” cried Ziska. “ Ten of our people were 
drowned in it; and since that day the stone which covers it never has 
been raised. Well, let .it remain, and serve them for a monument, 
since we are not of those* who believe that souls perish because the 
bodies rot in unconsecrated grouiKl. Let the bones of our brothers 
rot where they lie, since their souls are alive, and doing battle for us, 
though we see them not. For the inhabitants of the village, they 
have received their punishment; for the oak, it has been preserved for 
another destiny than giving shade to miscreants. We have need of a 
gallows; bring me the twenty Augustin monks whom we took in their 
convent yesterday, and hang them high on the branches of the brave 
oak. That ornament will g"ive it all its ancient health.” 

It was done as quickly as commanded, and from that day the oak 
was named the Hussite, the stone over the cistern, the Stone of Ter- 
ror, and the ruined village on the deserted hill, the Shreckenstein. 
Consuelo had already heard this tale of horror from the Baroness 
Amelia, with all its terrible details; but, since hitherto she had seen 
it only from a distance, save during the riightof her arrival at the cas- 
tle, she would not have recognized it, had she not discovered on cast- 
ing her eyes downward into the deep ravine, through which wound 
the high road, tlie fragments of the thunderstiicken oak, which no 
villager or vassal of the castle had dared to remove, owing to the su- 
perstitious awe which had attached for centuries to that monument 
of horror, that contemporary of the fierce John Ziska. 

The predictions and visions of Count Albert had also invested the 
place with a touching and tragic character, so that even Consuelo felt 
a thrill of tei'ror as she found herself seated on that Stone of Terror 
so unexpectedly. Nor was her alarm wholly groundless, for, since in 
tlie belief not only of Albert, but of all the mountaineers, the hill was 
invested with strange terrors and haunted by terrible apparitions. 
Close as it was to the castle, the Shreckenstein was often the haunt of 
wild beasts, safe from the pursuit not only of the hunters by profes- 
sion, but even of Count Frederick and of liis trusty heath-hounds. 


166 


CONSUELO. 


The impassive baron cared not, it is true, much for the demons which 
were held to haunt the spot; but he did dread, in his own peculiar 
line, a pernicious influence which lie believed to threaten all dogs 
which drank of the clear rills which burst out on all sides from the 
rocky hill, issuing probably from the dreaded cistern, that ancient bur- 
ial place of the Hussites. So that he sternly recalled his greyhound 
Sapphyr, or his double-nosed Pankin, whensoever they invaded the 
neighborhood of the Schreckenstein. 

Ashamed, however, of her own weakness, Consuelo determined on 
the instant to conquer it, and resolved as a duty to sit a moment 
longeron the fatal stone, and to retire from it only with the slow pace 
becoming a determined spirit. But just as she withdrew her gaze 
from the blasted oak, which lay perhaps a hundred feet below her in 
the gorge, to look on nearer objects, she perceived that she was no 
longer alone on the Stone of Terror, but that a strange figure had 
seated itself beside her, without giving token of its approach by the 
slightest sound. 

it was a round, gaping head, moving to and fro, on a deformed body, 
lean and distorted as that of a grasshopper, covered with an indescri- 
bable costume belonging to no date or country, and so dilapidated as 
to be more than slovenly. The figure was stiil in no degree alarming 
beyond its strangeness, and the suddenjiess of its appearance, for it 
showed no symptoms of hostility — on the contrary, a soft and caress- 
ing smile played around its wide mouth, and a mild, child-like expres- 
sion softened down the want of intellect, which was evident from its 
wandering eye and hurried gestures. Yet Oonsuelo, when she found 
lierself alone with an idiot, in a place where assuredly no person could 
come to her aid, was really afraid, in spite of the numerous reverences 
and affectionate smiles which the poor fool offered to her. She judged 
it for the best to return his smiles, and bows, so to avoid irritating him, 
but she arose in haste, and hurried away, pale and trembling. 

The idiot did not offer to follow or recall her, but jum]>ed on the 
Stone of Terror, following her with his eyes, jumping about, and 
throwing his hands and arms wildly to and fro. articnlating many times 
in succession certain Bohemian words of which Consuelo could not 
comprehend the import. 

When she saw that he did not attempt to molest her, she recovered 
courage to look at and listen to him, reproaching herself with the 
dread she felt of his natural deformity and mental affliction. Then 
she began to vveave a hundred wild fancies concerning the cause and 
nature of his insanity, and concerning the contempt and hatred of 
men which she supposed him to be undergoing while under the espe- 
cial protection of Providence. 

The idiot, seeing that she slackened her pace, and seenning to com- 
prehend the gentleness of her looks, began to talk to her in Bohemian 
with extreme volubility, and in a voice the softness of which was 
strangely contrasted by the hideousness of his ajjpearance. Not com- 
prehending him at all, Consuelo thought to olfer him alms, and drew 
a coin from her pocket, which she laiil on a large stone, first lifting it 
on high that he might see it. But the idiot only laughed the louder, 
rubbing his hands, and crying in bad German. “Useless! useless I 
Zdenko needs it not. Zdenko needs nothing. Zdcmko is happy, very 
happy. Zdenko has consolation! consolation! consolation!” Then, 
as if he suddenly remembered a word which he had long been seeking, 
he cried out with delight, and quite intelligibly, though very ill pro- 


CONSUELO. 167 

nouMcod, the words, Consuelo ! Consuelo ! Consuelo! Consuelo.de 
mi alma I ! ” 

Consuelo stopped short in astonishment, and addressing him in 
Spanish, asked, ** Wherefore do you address me thus? Who taught 
you that name ? How came you to understand the language which 
I speak ? ” 

But to all these enquiries Consuelo awaited a reply in vain, for the 
idiot did nothing but jump about, repeating the word in a Imndred 
different tones, apparently charmed with Inmself, and reiterating it 
like a bird which has picked up some articulate word, and delights to 
intermingle it with its natural strains. 

As she returned toward the castle, Consuelo mused deeply on this 
odd occurrence, and at first tried to remember the face of'the idiot 
who thus recognized and named her at first sight, as one of the Vene- 
tian vagabonds and beggars, whom she had been wont to meet on the 
quays and on the place of St. Mark; but though many recurred easily 
to her recollection, the idiot of the Stone of TerroV had no place 
among them. 

But as she crossed over the Pont Levis, a more logical and far 
more interesting explanation of what had passed, occurred to her. 
She resolved to enlighten herself carefully as to her suspicions, and 
went so far even as to congratulate herself that her expedition had not 
been altogether unsuccessful. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

When she again found herself in the midst of that inelancholy 
and dejected family, while she now felt both hope and animation, she 
began to reproach herself for the severity with which she had 
judged these worthy and afflicted persons. Count Christian and the 
canoness ate not a morsel during breakfast; Amelia was in desper- 
ately. ill-humor, and the chaplain dared not indulge his unflagging 
appetite. So soon as they rose from the table, the count stopped 
sadly for a moment at the window, gazed out upon the sandy road, 
across the warren, by which he hoped that Albert might return 
homeward, and then shook his head sadly, as who should say, “ Here 
is another day ill begun, which will terminate as ill.” 

Consuelo tried to divert their thoughts by playing some of Por- 
pora’s latest religious compositions, to which they ever listened with 
unfailing interest and admiration.’ It grieved her to feel their grief, 
and yet not dare inform them of the better hopes she cherished. 
But when she saw the count resume his book, and the cationess her 
needle — when she found herself called upon to decide whether a cer- 
tain ornament in the centre of the embroidery ought to have white 
or blue points, she could not refrain from returning in her thoughts 
to Albert, whom she fancied dying in his hideous catalepsy upon 
some lonely rock in the forest, or perhaps a prey to wolves and ser- 
pents, while under the industrious fingers of Wenceslawa a thousand 
brilliant flowers were glowing on the tapestry, watered perchance at 
intervals by a furtive but sterile tear. 

As soon as she had an opportunity of questioning Amelia, who was 


CONSUELO, 


168 

in the pouts, she inquired of her who was the strangely dressed fool 
who roamed the country, laughing idiotically at all whom he met. 

“Oh! it is Zdenko,” replied Amelia. “Have you not met him be- 
fore in your rambles? One is certain to meet him sooner or later, for 
he has no settled abode.” 

“ 1 saw him this morning for the first time, and fancied him the 
spirit of the Sehreckenstein.” 

“Ah! is it there you have been wandering since day-break. I 
almost begin to think you mad yourself, my dear Nina, to go alone at 
dawn into those desert spots, Avhere you might well meet worse cus- 
tomers than an inoffensive idiot such as Zdenko.” 

“ Some hungry wolf, perhaps,” said Consuelo, smiling, “ But I fan- 
cy that your father, the baron^s, rifle is a safeguard against such for the 
whole country.” 

“ I do not speak of wild beasts only,” said Amelia. “ The country 
is infested, more than you imagine, with the most dangerous animals 
on earth, brigands and vagabonds. Whole tribes of families, ruined 
in the wars, roam about, demanding alms at the pistol’s muzzle. Be- 
sides which, there are swarms of Egyptian Zingari, whom the French 
have honored us by calling Bohemians, as if they were aboriginal na- 
tives of our mountains. These people, rejected on all sides, and cow- 
ardly enough before armed men, might be bold enough to a hand- 
some young girl, like you; and your adventurous walks might expose 
you to risks which should not be lightly encountered by a person so 
reasonable as you affect to be.” 

“ Dear baroness,” replied Consuelo, “ although you seem to think so 
lightly of the fangs of a wolf, in comparison of the dangers which, as 
you say, threaten me, .1 confess that I should fear them far more than 
the Zingari. They are old acquaintances of mine, and I cannot fancy 
how one should fear beings so weak, so poor, and so persecuted. On 
the contrary, I have always felt that I could so speak to those people 
as to win tlieir confidence, for if they be ill clad, and despised on all 
sides, it is impossible for me to avoid feeling a stong interest in them.” 

“Bravo! my dear,” cried Amelia, with increased bitterness ; “you 
have got so far, even, as Albert’s fine sentiments in behalf of beggars, 
bandits, and aliens; nor shall I be surprised to see you, like .him, 
leaning some fine morning on the frail and filthy arm oi' Zdenko.” 

These words struck Consuelo like a gleam of light, and she asked 
with a satisfaction which she sought not to conceal, “ And does Count 
Albert live on good terms with Zdenko?” 

“ He is his most familiar and intimate friend,” replied Amelia, scorn- 
fully, “ He is the companion of his walks, the sharer of all liis secrets, 
the messenger, as tolks say, of his private correspondences with the 
devil. Zdenko and Albert hold conferences, for bom's, on the Store 
of Terror, concerning all sorts of absurdities, which they choose to call 
religion. Albm't and Zdenko alone blush not to sit «iown on thegrass 
witli tb(? Zingari, who halt under the shadow of our j)ine trees, and to 
share their disgusting meals from their wooden trenchers. They call 
this communicating — and it may well be called communicating, in 
every sense. A desiiable husband, truly, my cousin Albert would be, 
who should grasp in his hand, lately sullied by the ])estilential touch of 
the Zingari, the fingers of his betrothed, and raise them to lips which 
have drank the wine of the chalice from the same cup with Zdenko.” 

“ This may be all vastly witty,” said Consuelo; “ but for my part, I 
do not understand one word of it.” 


CONSUELO. 


169 


“ That is because you have no taste for history, and have not listen- 
ed to me, when I have been talking myself hoarse in telling you about 
the riddles and mysterious acts of my cousin. Have I not told you 
how the great quarrel between the Hussites and tlie Romanists arose 
m relation to the two elements — the council of Bale insisting that it 
was a profanation to give the blood of our Saviour to the laity, in the 
element of wine, alleging — a fine argument, indeed — that as both his 
body and blood are contained in both elements — who eats the one 
drinks the other! Do you understand? ” 

“ No. Neither did the council, I think. Logically, they might have 
said it was useless; but how pi-ofanation, if to eat implies drinking 
also? ” 

Thereupon, Amelia entered into a long discussion on the tenets of 
the two hostile churches, speaking equally in ridicule of each ; con- 
demning the luxury of the Catholics, and the fanaticism of the Hus- 
sites, wiio affected to use wooden cups and platters at communion, 
imitating the poverty of the Apostles. 

“ This,” she pursued, “ is the reason why Albert, who has taken it 
into his head to be a Hussite, after all the symbols of old have lost all 
signification; Albert, who affects to know the true doctrine of John 
Huss better than John Huss did himself, invents all sorts of commun- 
ions, and goes about communicating, as he calls it, on the high road, 
with beggars, idiots, and even heathens. For it was a mania with the 
Hussites to communicate in all places, at all times, and with every- 
body.” 

“ All this is fantastical enough,” said Consuelo, and I can only as- 
cribe it to an exalted patriotism, carried, I must admit, to delirium in 
Count Albert. There may be a deep meaning in the thought, but the 
formulas are childish for a man so serious and learned. The true com- 
munion should rather be charity. For what can avail the empty cere- 
monies of the past, which can, by no possibility comprise the persons 
with whom he associates? ” 

As for charity, Albert in no wise lacks that. If he were left to him- 
self, he would strip himself of everything; and, for my part, I wish 
they would let him scatter all he possesses into the hands of vaga- 
bonds.” 

“ And wherefore? ” 

‘‘ Because, then my father would give up the idea of enriching me 
by marrying me to this demoniac; for you must know that they have 
not given up this precious idea, and during the last few days, during 
which iny cousin showed a glimpse of reason, attacked me on that liead 
more strenuously than ever. We had a sharp quarrel, the result of 
which seems to be that my father is about to endeavor to reduce me, 
as they do castles, by blockade. If I yield, therefore, you see 1 shall 
be married to him, in spite of myself, of him, and of yet a third person, 
who afiects not to care a particle about it.” 

“Here we are again, eh?” said Consuelo, laughing, “I expected 
some such sarcasm as that, and I see clearly that you have only done 
me the honor of conversing with me this morning, in order to arrive 
at it. I am glad to see it, however, for in this little comedy of jealousy, 
I discover a remnant of afiectioii for Count Albert, which you will not 
confess.” 

“Nina!” exclaimed the young baroness, energetically, “if you think 
you see that, you lack penetration. If you rejoice at it, you lack re- 
gard for me. I am violent and proud, but I know not how to dis 


170 


C O N S U E 1> O, 


semble. I have told you that Albert’s preference for you enrages ni6 
against liiin, not against you. It wounds my self-pri^’e, and yet flat- 
ters my hopes and gratifies my wishes. I now only desire him to com- 
mit some notorious folly for you, which may rid me of all half meas- 
ures, by justifying the aversion against which I have so long striven, 
but which I now feel towards him, unmixed with love or pity.'’ 

“ God grant,” cried Consuelo, “ that this be the language, not of 
truth, but of passion ; for it would be a very harsh truth in the hands 
of a very unfeeling person.” 

The bitterness which Amelia had shown during this conversation 
did not greatly affect Consuelo’s generous spirit. She now tliought 
only of her enterprise, and the dream wdiich slie cherished of restor- 
ing Albert to his family, cast a sort of pleasure over the monotony of 
her occupations. It was necessary, hovvever, that she should occupy 
herself, in order to guard against the ennui which was growing upon 
her, and which, as it had been the disease most unknown to her ac- 
tive and laborious life, was that most paijiful to her. She had no re- 
source, then, but, after giving Amelia a long and fastidious lesson, but 
to practice her own voice, and to study the ancient masters; but even 
this occupation, which as yet had never failed her, was now denied; 
for Amelia, with her idle curiosity, persisted in coming, interrupting 
and annoying her every five minutes, with childish questions and un- 
meaning observations. The rest of the family were horribly out of 
spirits, for already five mortal days had passed, since the disappeaiance 
of the young count, and, every fresh day added to the consternation 
and dejection of the last. 

That same afternoon, while Consuelo was strolling in the garden, 
with Amelia, she saw Zdenko on the fartlier side of tlie moat, which 
divided them from the open country. He was busy talking to himself, 
in a tone which seemed to indicate that he was relating a story. 
Consuelo stopped her companion, and begged her to translate the 
words of this strange being. 

“ How can I translate rhapsodies, without connection or meaning?” 
returned Amelia, shrugging up her shoulders. “ He is muttering 
thus, if you care to hear it: 

“ ‘ There was once a great mountain, all white, all white; and hard 
by it a great mountain, all black, all black; and hard by it a great 
mountain, all red, all red.’ Does this interest you much ? ” 

“Perhaps it would, if I but knew the end.' Oh! how I do wish I 
understood Bohemian. I will learn it.” 

“It is not quite so easy to learn as Italian or Spanish; still, 
you are so industrious, that you will soon master it, if you set to 
work. I will teach you, if it will give you any pleasure. 

“ You will be an angel to do so, provided always that you are more 
jMtient as a mistress than as a pupil. And now what is Zdenko 
saying? ” 

“ Now the mountains are conversing, ‘ Wherefore, O red moun- 
tain, all red, hast thou crushed the mountain all black? And thou 
white mountain, all white, wherefore hast thou suflered the black 
mountain, all black, to be crushed ? ’ 

Here Zdenko begati to sing with a shrill atid broken voice, but so 
sweetly and truly, that Consuelo felt her heart thrill to the core. 
His song proceeded: 

“ Black mountains and white mountains, then, will need much 
water, much water, to bleach your garments — ” 


CONSUELO. 


171 

“ Your garments black with crime, and white with idleness — your 
garments soiled with falsehood, your garments glittering with pride. 

“Now they are both bleached, well bleached. Your garments 
which would not change their hues — behold ! they are worn, much 
worn, your garments which would not sweep the dust. 

“L‘o! all the mountains are red, all red. These will need all the 
waters of heaven, all the waters of heaven to bleach them clean.” 

“Is this improvised, or is it an old national song?” added Consuelo. 

“ Who can tell ? Zdenko is either an inexhaustible improvisateur 
or a most learned rhapsodist. Our peasants delight to hear him, re- 
spect him as a saint, and regard his insanity as a gift rather than as a 
misfortune from the hand of heaven. They feed and cherish him, 
and if he would, he might be the best clad and best lodged man in the 
country, for every one strives for the pleasure and advantage of being 
his host. He is regarded as a luck-bearer, as a good omen. When a 
storm threatens, Zdenko says, ‘It is nothing; the hail will not fall 
here! ’ If the harvest is bad, they entreat Zdenko to sing, and as he 
always promises years of fertility and increase, they console them- 
selves for the present, expecting a better future. But Zdenko will 
abide nowhere. His vagabond nature leads him away into the depths 
of forests. No one knows where he sleeps of nights, or where he 
shelters himself from storm or tempest. Never, in ten years, has he 
been seen to pass beneath any roof but that of the Giant’s Castle, for 
he pretends that his ancestors are in all the other houses of the coun- 
try, and that he is forbidden to appear before them. Nevertheless, he 
follows Albert to his chamber, for to him he is as faithful and obedient 
as his dog Cynabre. Albert is the only being who controls at his 
pleasure the wild independence of his nature, and who can bid cease 
at a word his unflagging gaiety, his eternal songs, and unwearied bab- 
ble. Zdenko, they say, had once a very fine voice, but he has ex- 
hausted it by singing, chattering, and laughing. He is scarcely older 
than Albert, though he looks like a man of fifty. They have been 
comrades from childhood. At that time Zdenko was but half an 
idiot. Descended from an ancient family — one of his ancestors hav- 
ing figured in the Hussite wars — he had enough memory and quick- 
ness t^o be destined by his parents to the cloister. For a long time, he 
wore the garb of a mendicant novice, but when he was sent out with 
the ass and wallet, accompanied by a brother, to seek gifts from the 
charitable, he absconded into the woods, leaving ass, friar, and wallet, 
and was not seen for many a day. When Albert went abroad, he fell 
into deep melancholy, cast his frock to the winds, and became entirely 
a vagabond. By degrees his melancholy passed away, but although 
his gaiety returned, the gleams of reason which had previously shone 
out through the oddities of his character, became entirely extinct. 
He talks no longer, except incoherently, displays all sorts of strange 
manias, and is really quite mad; but as he is always sober, peaceful, 
and inoftensive, and may be rather looked on as an idiot than as a 
madman, our peasantry call him the innocent, and no more.” 

“All that you tell me of the poor creature,” said Consuelo, “only 
the more awakens my sympathies in his behalf. I wish I could talk 
to him. Does he speak German at all? ” 

“ He understands, and can speak it better, or worse, but like all 
Bohemian peasants, he detests the language; and being always busied 
in reveries, as he is now, it is more than doubtful if he will listen to 
you when you address him.” 


/ 


CONSUELO, 


172 


“ Try to speak to him in his own language, and attract his atten- 
tion to us,” said Consuelo. 

Amelia called several times to Zdenko, asking him in Bohemian if 
he was well, and if he wished for anything, but she could not make 
him lift his head, or intermit a game which he was playing with three 
pebbles, one black, one white, and one red, throwing them one at the 
other, and laughing when any fell. 

“ You see itis in vain,” said Amelia. “When he is not hnngry he 
never speaks to us, unless he is in search of Albert. In either of 
these cases he comes to the castle gate, and if he is only hungry, he 
stands still on the threshold. Whatever he wants is given to him ; he 
returns thanks, and goes his way. If he wishes to see Albert he en- 
ters, and goes and knocks at his chamber door, which is never closed 
against him, and there he remains, silent and docile as a timid child, 
if Albert is studying; full of clatter and mirth, if Albert is inclined 
to listen to him ; nWer troublesome, as it appears, to my charming 
cousin, arid happier in that respect than any member of the family.” 

“And when Count Albert becomes invisible, as at present, does 
Zdenko, who loves him so dearly, and who so deplored his absence 
when abroad, manifest no uneasiness?” 

“ None. He says that Albert has gone to see the Almighty, and 
that he will bring him back when he pleases. That was what he said 
while Albert was travelling.” 

“ And do you not suspect, dear Amelia, that Zdenko may have bet- 
ter reasons than any of you for his security? Has it never struck 
you tliat he may be in Albert’s secret, and may watch over him while 
in his lethargic or delirious state ? ” 

“ We once thought so, and long watched his movements, but, like 
his patron Albert, lie cannot endure supervision, and more cunning 
than a fox, he eludes all vigilance, outwits all stratagems, and has, it 
is said, like Albert, the power of rendering himself invisible when he 
pleases. He has sometimes disappeared as suddenly from eyes rivet- 
ted upon him, as if he had dived into the earth, or been swallowed in 
a cloud. At least, so says my aunt Wenceslawa, who, for all her 
piety, has not the strongest head in the world as regards diabolical 
influences.” 

“ But you, my dear baroness, cannot credit these absurdities?” 

“ No. But 1 agree with my uncle Christian, in thinking that if 
Albert, in his mysterious disappearances, has no aid but that of this 
vagabond, it would be very dangerous to deprive him of it, of which 
there is much risk, by watching Zdenko. and annoying him in his ma- 
noeuvres. But for heaven’s sake, dear Nina, let us turn to some other 
subject. We have had enough on this chapter, for I do not feel the 
same interest with you in this idiot. I am wearied of his endless ro- 
mances and songs, and his broken voice gives me a sore throat.” 

“ I wonder,” said Consuelo, following her companion, “ that his 
voice has no charm for your ears, for all broken as it is, on me it has 
a more powerful ellect tiian that of the finest singers,” 

“ That is because you are bio, see with fine singing, and love novel- 
ty.” 

“ The language which he sings is peculiarly melodious,” replied 
f'onsuelo, “ and the monotony of his tones is not what you think it. 
The ideas are, on the contrary, v^ry sweet and original.” 

“ For my part, I am weary to death of them,” answered Amelia. 
“ At first I took some interest in them, thinking, with the people of 


CONSUELO. 


173 

the country, that they might be old national songs, curious in an his- 
torical connection, but as he never repeats them twice alike, I am sat- 
isfied that he improvises them, and at a hearing or two I was satisfied 
that they were not worth listening to, although our mountairiQers 
find in them at their will a symbolical meaning.” 

As soon as Consuelo could rid herself of Amelia, she ran back to 
the garden, where she found Zdenko still playing as before, on the 
outer side of the moat. Being now assured that this wretched being 
had relations of some kind with Albert, she had secretly provided her- 
self with a cake of the canoness’ making, which she had observed 
that Albert preferred, and wrapping it in a white handkerchief, which 
she wished to throw across the moat to Zdenko, she took the chance 
of calling him by name. But he took no notice of her. Then, 
remembering the eagerness with which he had repeated her own 
name, she repeated it in German, but he was in a melancholy mood, 
and without looking at her he only repeated, in German, “ Consola- 
tion ! Consolation ! ” as who should say, “ for me there is no consola- 
tion.” 

Then, desirous of seeing if her name in Spanish would produce the 
same effect it had in the morning, she said, “ Consuelo.” 

On the instant Zdenko left his pebbles, and began jumping and 
gesticulating on the edge of the moat, waving his bonnet over his 
head, stretching his arms toward her, with very animated Bohemian 
words, and a face beaming with pleasure. 

“ Albert! ” cried Consuelo, and threw the cake to him. 

Zdenko picked it up, laughing, and without unfolding the handker- 
chief; but he said many things which Consuelo was in despair at not 
being able to understand. She listened attentively, and succeeded in 
catching one phrase which he repeated many times, always bowing as 
he uttered it. Her musical ear enabled her to seize the exact pro- 
nunciation, and as soon as Zdenko was gone, for he took to his heels 
at full speed, she wrote it in her pocket-book, spelling it in Venetian, 
with the intent to learn its meaning from Amelia. But before she 
left Zdenko, being desirious of giving him something which should 
denote more delicately the interest she took in Albert, she recalled 
the innocent, and as he returned, obedient to her voice, she threw 
him a bouquet, which she had gathered an hour before in the hot- 
house, and which still remained fresh and perfumed at her belt. 
Zdenko picked it up, repeated his salutation, his exclamations, and 
his bounds, and then, plunging into the brushwood, through which 
one could have supposed that a hare only could make its way, disap- 
peared altogether. For a few moments Consuelo watched his rapid 
fliglit with all her eyes, judging that he was going to the south-eastward 
by the agitation of "the top of the bushes. But a slight breeze soon set 
her observation at nought, by shaking equally the tops of all the cop- 
pice, and Consuelo returned to the castle, more set than ever to per- 
severe in her determination. 


174 


CONSUELO, 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

When Amelia was asked to interpret whatConsuelo had written on 
her tablets and engraved in her memory, she said she knew nothing 
about the matter, though she was able to translate literally these 
words : 

“ Let the person you have injured salute you.” 

“ Perhaps,” said she, “ he wishes to speak of Albert or of himself, 
saying that an injury has been done them, by taxing them with mad- 
ness. You must know they think themselves the only tw’o reasonable 
men alive. Why, though, look for sense in the conversation of a 
madman? This Zdenko occupies more of your thoughts than you 
think.” 

“ The people everywhere,” said Consuelo, “ attribute to madmen a 
kind of intelligence altogether superior to that perceived by colder 
minds. I have a right to preserve the prejudices of my class, and 1 
cannot think a madman speaks ad libitum, when he utters things 
which seem to us unintelligible.” 

“ Let us see,” said Amelia, “ if the chaplain, who is well versed in 
all the formidable formulas of the old world lore our parents are 
familiar with, is acquainted with this.” Going to the good man, she 
asked him to translate the phrase of Zdenko. 

These obscure words, however, seemed to cast a terrible light into 
the chaplain’s heart. “ Living God ! ” said he, “ was such a blasphe- 
my ever heard ! ” 

“ If there ever was,” said Amelia, “ I cannot conceive wbat it is. 
For that reason I asked you to translate it.” 

“ Word for word in good German it means ‘ let the person you have 
injured save you.’ If though, you wish to know the meaning loud, 
(I dare scarcely to pronounce it,) — the meaning is — ‘ Let the devil be 
with you ! ’” 

“In plain language,” said Amelia, “it means, ‘Go to the devil.’ 
Well, that is a pretty compliment, and this is all we make, dear Nina, 
by talking to fools. You did not think that Zdenko, with his allable 
smile and pleasant grimaces, played so ungallant a part with you? ” 

“Zdenko?” said the chaplain. “Ah! none but an idiot speaks 
thus. Very well: I was afraid it was some one else — I was wrong. 
Such a series of abominations could only come from a head filled up 
with old heresy. Whence did he obtain a knowledge of things either 
unknown now or forgotten ? The Spirit of Evil alone can suggest it 
to him.” 

“ Bah ! that is nothing but a simple asseveration used by the popu- 
lace in every country. The Catholics are no worse than others.” 

“ Think not so, baroness,” said the chaplain. “This is not a male- 
diction in the understanding of him who uses it. On the contrary, it 
is a benediction — in that consists the crime. This is an abomination 
of the Lollards, a detestable sect which begot the Vaudois, from whom 
come the Hussites.” 

“ And they will beget many others,” said Amelia, gravely, as if she 
wished to laugh at the good priest. “ Let us see, though, father. 
How can one gain another’s thanks by recommending his neiglibor 
to the Devil?” 

“ The reason is, that, as the Lollards think, Satan was not the ene- 


CONSUELO. 


175 

my of humanity, but on the contrary, its protector and patron. They 
said he was the victim of injustice and jealousy. As they think, the 
archangel Michael and the other celestial powers who precipitated 
liiin into darkness were true devils, while Lucifer, Beelzebub, Asta- 
roth, Astarte, and the monsters of hell, were innocence itself. They 
thought the reign of Michael and his glorious army soon would end, 
and that the devil and his phalanxes would be i-estored. They also 
paid him an impious worship, and when they met, said, ‘ May the 
one who has been wronged salute you,’ that is to say ‘salute and 
assist you.’ ” 

‘‘ Well,” said Amelia, laughing loud, “ Nina is under the most fhvor- 
able auspices. I shall not be amazed if we should have to use exor- 
cisms to destroy the effects of Zdenko’s incantations.” 

“Consuelo was amused by this sport. She was not very sure that 
the devil was a chimera and hell a poetic fable. She would have been 
inclined to think that the indignation and terror of the chaplain was 
serious, had not the latter, offended by Amelia’s scoffs, been perfectly 
ridiculous. Amazed, troubled in all her childish opinions by tlie sce!)e 
of strife into which she had been cast, between credulity and supersti- 
tion, Consuelo had not a little trouble in saying her prayei*s. She 
passed in review all forms of worship which she had hitherto received 
blindly, but which no longer satisfied her. As far as I can see, there 
are two kinds of devotion at Venice. That of the convents and of the 
populace, and that of the people, which perhaps goes too far; for 
under the guise of religion it receives all kinds of superstitious acces- 
sories, the Orco, (the devil of the Lagunes,) the sorceries of Malam- 
occo, the search after gold, the horoscope and vows to the saints for 
the success of the most impious wishes. There is also that of the 
fashionable world and of the higher clergy, which is but a mere type. 
They go to church as they do to the theatre, to hear music aTul to 
show themselves, laughing at everything, even at religion, thinking 
nothing is serious oi‘ exerts an influence over their conscience — that 
form and custom are everything. Consuelo continued to think of 
these things, to express lier regret that Anzoleto was not religiously 
inclined; that Porpora had faith in nothing. She was herself in the 
greatest trouble, and said, “For what shall I toil? Why shall I be 
pitiful, bi’ave or generous, who am alone in the world, unless there be 
a Supreme Being, intelligent and full of love? who judges not, but 
approves and aids me? w'ho also blesses me. What power, what in- 
toxication do they infuse into life, who can pass from hope and love 
above all the vicissitudes and all the illusions of life? 

“ Supreme Being ! ” cried she in her heart, forgetting the accustom- 
ed form of her prayer, “ teach me what I ought to do. Infinite 
Love ! teach me what 1 ought to love. Infinite Wisdom ! teach me 
what I ought to believe.” 

While thus praying and meditating, she forgot the flight of time, 
and it was past midnight when before retiring to bed she cast a glance 
over the landscape now lighted by the moon’s pale beams. The view 
from her window was not very extensive, owing to the surrounding 
mountains, but exceedingly picturesque. A narrow and winding val- 
ley, in the centre of which sparkled a mountain stream, lay before 
her, its meadows gently undulating until they reached the base of the 
surrounding hills, which shut in the horizon, except where at inter- 
vals they opened to permit the eye to discover still more distant and 
steeper ranges, clothed to the very summit with dark green firs. The 


176 


CONSUELO. 


last rays of the setting moon shone full on the principal features of 
this sombre but striking landscape, to which the dark foliage of the 
evergreens, the pent-up water, and the rocks covered with moss and 
ivy, imparted a stern and savage aspect. 

While Consuelo was comparing tliis country with those she had 
travelled through in her childhood, she was struck with an idea she 
had not known before. It seemed that what passed before her was 
not entirely new, either because she had been in Bohemia or in some 
very similar place. ‘‘ My mother and myself,” said she, “ travelled so 
much, that it would not be at all surprising had lever been here; and 
often I have a distinct idea of Dresden and A^ienna. We may have 
passed through Bohemia to go to one or the other of those capitals. 
It would be strange, however, if we had received hospitality in some 
barn where I am now welcomed as a lady; or if w^e earned by our 
songs a piece of bread at the door of some hut where Zdenko now 
sings his old songs. Zdenko, the wandering artist, is my equal, 
though he does not seem to be.” 

Just then her eyes fell on the Schreckenstein, the brow of which 
she saw above a nearer peak, and it seemed to her to be crowned with 
a ruddy color, which feebly changed the transparent blue of heaven. 
She looked closely at it, and saw it become more indistinct, disappear, 
and come again, until it was so distinct that it could not be an illusion 
of the senses. Whether this was but the passing abode of a band of 
Zingari, the haunt of some brigands, or not, it was very evident that 
the Schreckenstein was now occupied by living beings; and Consuelo, 
after her fervent prayer to Almighty God, was no longer disposed to 
believe in the stranger beings with which popular tradition peopled 
the mountain. Did not Zdenko kindle the lire to ward off the chill 
of the night? If Zdenko was there, was not that fire kindled for Al- 
bert’s sake? This light had often been seen on the mountain, and 
all spoke of it with terror, attributing it to some supernaturalism. 
It had a thousand times been said that it came from the enchanted 
trunk of Ziska’s tree. The Hussite, however, no longer existed; at 
all events he was at the bottom of the ravine, and the red light now 
burned on the top of the mountain. Whither could this mysterious 
light call her, if not to Albert’s retreat? 

Oh, apathy of immortal souls,” said Consuelo, “ you are a blessing 
of God or an infirmity of incomplete natures.” She asked herself 
if she would have courage to go alone, and her heart replied that for 
a charitable purpose she certainly would. She was, howevei-, flatter- 
ing herself perfectly gratuitously in this respect, for the severe disci- 
pline of the castle left her no chance of egress. 

At dawn she awoke, full of zeal, and hurried to the mountain. All 
was silent and deserted, and the grass around the Rock of Terror 
seemed undisturbed. There were no traces of fire, and no evidence 
that any one had been there on the night before. She examined the 
whole mountain, but found nothing. She called for Zdenko, whis- 
tled to arouse the barking of Cynabre, called him again and again. 
She called “ Consolation ” in every tongue she knew, and sung several 
verses of her Spanish song, and even some of the Bohemian airs of 
Zdenko, which she remembered perfectly. She heard no reply. The 
moss rustled beneath her feet, and the murmur of mysterious waters 
beneath the rocks alone broke on her ear. 

Exhausted by this useless search, she was after a few moments’ rest 
about to retire, when she saw at her feet a pale and withered rose-leaf. 


CONSUELO. 


177 

She picked it iip, unfolded it, and became satisfied that it could not 
but be a leaf of a bouquet she had thrown to Zdenko. The mountain 
produced none but wild roses, and besides, this was not the season of 
their bloom. This faint index consoled her for all her fatigue and the 
apparent uselessness of her walk, persuading her fully that she must 
expect to meet Albert at the Schreckenstein. 

In what impenetrable cavern of the mountain though was he con- 
cealed ? He either was not there all the time, or now had some vio- 
lent cataleptic attack. Perhaps Consuelo was mistaken in thinking 
her voice had any power over him, and his delight at seeing her was 
but an access of madness, which had left no trace in his memory. 
He now, perhaps, heard and saw her, laughed at her efforts and her 
useless advances. 

At this idea Consuelo felt her cheeks flush, and she left the moun- 
tain at once with a determination never to return thither. She left 
behind her, though, the basket of fruits she had brought with her. 

On the next day, she found the basket in the same place, perfectly 
nn touched, and even the leaves which covered it were umlisturbed. 
Her offering had been even disdained,, or Albert and Zdenko had not 
passed it. Yet the red light of the pine-wood fire had burnt all 
night on the mountain brow. 

Consuelo watched until dawn to ascertain this. She had more 
than once seen the light grow bright and dim, as if a careful hand 
attended it. No one had seen Zingari in the vicinity. No stranger 
had been observed on the ourskirts of the forest, and all the peasants 
Consuelo examined in relation to the Stone of Terror told her in bad 
German, that it was not right to inquire into such things, for that 
people should not look into the affairs of the other world. 

Albert, then, had not been seen for nine days. He had not been 
absent so long before, and this fact, added to the unlucky presages in 
relation to his thirtieth year, were not calculated to revive the hopes 
of his family. They began to be uneasy, and Count Christian began 
to sigh in a most unhappy manner. The baron went out shooting 
but killed nothing, and the chaplain made the most extraordinary 
prayers. Amelia neither laughed nor sung; and her aunt, pale and 
feeble, neglected her domestic cares, telling her chaplet trom inoi'iiing 
till night. She seemed bent a foot moie than usual. 

Consuelo ventured to propose a scrupulous and careful exploration 
of the mountain, confessed the examination she had made herself, and 
confided to the canoness the circumstance of the rose-leaf, and the 
careful manner in which she had examined the surface of the moun- 
tain. The arrangements Wenceslawa made for the exploration soon 
induced Consuelo to repent of her confidence. The canoness insisted 
on securing Zdenko’s person, or terrifying him, and on sending out 
fifty men with torches and guns. She also wished the chaplain to 
pronounce an exorcism over the fatal stone, while the baron, accompa- 
nied by Hans and his most faithful companions, besieged the mountain. 

This was the very way to make Albert staring mad, and by means 
of prayer and persuasion, Consuelo induced Wenceslawa to under- 
take nothing without her consent. This was her final proposition, 
and the one determined on : they were to leave the chateau on the 
next niglit and go alone, being followed in the distance by Hans and 
the chaplain, to examine the fire of Schreckenstein. This, however, 
was too much for the canoness. She was satisfied the witches held 
their Sabbath on the Stone of Terror, and all Consuelo could obtain 
11 


178 


C O N S U E L O. 


was, that the gates might be opened to her at midnight, and that the 
baron and a few other persons should accompany her without arms 
and in silence. It was arranged that Count Christian was to know 
notliing of this, because his advanced age and feeble health would not 
permit him to do so during the cold and unhealthy season. All knew, 
however, he would insist on accompanying them. 

All this was done, as Consuelo had desired. The baron, the chap- 
lain, and Hans accompanied them. She went alone a hundred paces 
in advance of their escort, ascending the mountain with a courage 
worthy of Bradarnante. As she drew near, however, the light which 
seemed to radiate from the fissures of the rock became gradually dim, 
and when she had come there a deep obscurity enveloped the moun- 
tain from the base to the summit. All was silent and solitary. She 
called for Zdenko, Cynabre, and Albert, though when she uttered his 
name she was terrified. All was silent, and echo replied alone. 

Perfectly discouraged, she soon returned to her guides. They ex- 
tolled her courage greatly, and ventured to examine the places she 
had left. They found nothing, and all returned in silence to the cha- 
teau, when the canoness, as she heard their story, felt her last hope 
decay. 


CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

Consuelo, after having received the thanks and the kiss of the 
kind Wenceslawa. went carefully to her room, taking precaution not 
to waken Amelia, from whom the enterprise had been concealed. 
She was on the first story, the rooms of the canoness being on the 
ground floor. As she went up the stairway, though, she let fall her 
light, which went out before she had time to pick it up. She thought 
she could find tier way without its aid, especially as day was about to 
break. Whether, because her mind was strongly engrossed, or that 
her courage after such an unusual exertion had "been exhausted, it at 
once left her, and she trembled so that she went on until she came 
to the upper story, and reached the corridor of Albert’s room, just 
above her own. Completely terror-stricken, she savv a dark shadow 
retire before her, and glide away as if its feet did not touch the floor, 
into the room Consuelo was about to enter, thinking it was her own. 
Amid all her terror, she had enough presence of mind to examine the 
figure, and see that it was Zdenko. What business had he to enter 
her room at that hour, and what had he to say to her? She did not 
feel disposed to meet him face to face, and went down stairs to see 
Wenceslawa. Not until after she had passed down stairs, and 
through a whole corridor, did she become aware she had seen Zdenko 
enter Albert’s room. 

Then a thousand conjectures suggested themselves to her mind, 
which was become perfectly calm and attentive. How had the idiot 
been able to penetrate by night into a chateau so closely watched and 
examined every night? The apparition of Zdenko confirmed an idea 
she had always entertained, that the castle had a secret outlet. She 
hurried to the door of the canoness, who had already shut herself up 
in her austere cell, and who shrieked aloud when she saw her so pale 
and without a light. 


CONSUELO. 


179 

“ Do not be uneasy, dear madam,” said the young girl to her. 
“ This is a new event, whimsical enough, perhaps, which need not 
make you afraid. I have just seen Zdenko in Albert’s room.” 

“ Zdenko! You are dreaming, my dear child. How could he have 
got in? I shut all the gates carefuily, as usual; and all the time you 
were on the mountain 1 kept a close watch. The drawbridge was up, 
and when you passed over it on your return I remained behind to see 
it lifted up again.” 

“ Be that as it may, madam, Zdenko is in Albert’s room. You can 
satisfy yourself.” 

“ I will, and will have him put out. He must have come in during 
the day. That proves, my child, that he knows no more where Al- 
bert is than we do.” 

“ At all events, let us see,” said Consuelo. 

“ One moment,” said the canoness, who, being about to go to bed, 
had taken off some of her under-garments, and fancied herself too 
lightly clad. “ I cannot thus present myself before a man. Go for 
the chaplain or the baron, the first you see. We cannot expose our- 
selves to meet this madman. Now, though. I think, it will not do for 
a woman like you to knock at their doors. Well, I will soon be ready. 
Wait for me.” 

She dressed herself as quickly as possible, acting, though, as if the 
interruption of her usual habits had completely crazed her. Con- 
suelo, impatient lest during the delay Zdenko might leave Albert’s 
room and conceal himself somewhere in the castle, regained all her 
energy. “ Dear madam,” said she, lighting her lamp, “ will you call 
the gentlemen, while I take care Zdenko does not escape.” 

Going hastily up two flights of stairs, she opened Albert’s door 
without any difficulty. The room, however, was deserted. She went 
into the cabinet, examined every curtain, and even looked under the 
bed and behind the curtains. Zdenko was not there, and had left no 
trace. 

“ Nobody is there,” said she to the canoness, who came ui>staii-s 
with Hans and the chaplain. The baron was in bed and asleep, and 
they had not been able to wake him. 

I begin to be afraid,” said the chaplain, rather out of humor at the 
new alarm, “that Porporina is the dupe of her own illusions.” 

“No, sir,” said she; “ no one of this company is less so than I am.” 

“ And no one,” said the good man, “ has more true good will. In 
your aMent wish to discover some traces of Albert, you have suffered 
yourself to be deceived.” 

“ Father,” said the canoness, “ la Porporina is brave as a lion, and 
prudent as a doctor. If she saw Zdenko, he was here. We must have 
the house searched, and, as it is closed, he cannot escape us, thank 
God.” 

The other servants were awakened, and every place was searched. 
Every dormitory was opened, every article of furniture was deranged. 
The forage even of the stables was examined. Hans looked even into 
the big boots of the baron. Zdenko was neither in them nor in any 
visible place. All began to think Consuelo had been dreaming. She, 
though, was more satisfied than ever that there was a mysterious 
outlet to the castle, and this she resolved to discover. After a few 
liours’ rest, she resolved to look again. The building in which her 
rooms were (Albert’s were there too), was, as it were, hung on the 
hill side. This picturesque position had been selected by Albert, be- 


180 


CONSUELO, 


cause it enabled him to enjoy a fine southern view, and on the east 
overlook a pretty garden on a level with his workshop. He was fond 
of flowers, and cultivated some rare plants in beds on the terrace, the 
earth to form which had been brought thither from below. The ter- 
race was surrounded by a heavy stone wall, breast high, overlooking 
rough rocks and a flowery belvidera on one side, and on the other a large 
portion of the Boehmer-wald. Consuelo had never yet been in this 
place, and admired its fine position and picturesque arrangement. 
She then made the chaplain tell her what had been the use of this 
terrace since the time the castle had been transformed from a fortress 
into a residence. 

He said it was an old bastion, a kind of fortified terrace, whence 
the garrison were able to watch the motions of troops in the valley or 
mountains around. Every pass was visible hence. Once a high wall 
with loopholes surrounded the platform, and protected the garrison 
from the arrow^of the enemy. 

“ What is this? ” said Consuelo, approaching a cistern in the midst 
of the parterre, and in which was a narrow winding stairway. 

“ This once supplied the garrison abundantly with spring water. 
It was of vast importance to the fortress.” 

“ This water is then fit to drink,” said Consuelo, as she looked at 
the green and slimy water of the cistern. “ To me it looks as if it 
had been disturbed.” 

“ It is not good now, or, at least, it is not always good, and Count 
Albert uses it only to water his flowers. I must tell you that about 
two months ago a strange phenomenon took place in this fountain. 
The spring (for there is one in the mountain) became intermittent. 
For several weeks the water sinks rapidly, and Count Albert makes 
Zdenko bring up buckets-full to water his plants. All at once, some- 
times during one night or one hour, the cistern becomes fill(Mi with 
warm troubled water, as you see now. Some phenomenon of this 
kind must have taken place during the night, for on yesterday only 
the cistern was clear and full, and now it looks as if it had been 
empty and filled again.” 

“ These phenomena do not recur regularly? ” 

“ No. I would have examined them carefully, had not Count Al- 
bert, who keeps all from entering his room and his garden, with the 
sternness he exhibits in every respect, forbade me to do so.” 

“ How% then, do you explain the disappearance of the w^ater at 
other times ? ” ' 

“ By the great quantity required for the Count’s flowers.” 

“ Many hours, it seems to me, would be required to empty this cis- 
tern. Is it not deep? ” 

“Not deep? It has no bottom.” 

“ Then your explanation is not satisfactory,” said Consuelo, amazed 
at the chaplain’s folly.” 

“Find a better one, then,” said he, sharply. 

“Certainly I will,” said Consuelo, completely engrossed by the 
caprices of the fountain. 

“Oh! if you ask Count Albert about it,” said the chaplain, who 
w^ould have willingly acquired an ascendency over the clear-sighted 
stranger, “ he would tell you they are the tears of his mother, collect- 
ed in the centre of the mountain. The famous Zdenko, to whom you 
attribute so much penetration, would say that some syren sang there 
tc those who had ears to hear. They have baptised this well ‘ the 


CONSUELO. 181 

fountain of tears.’ All that may be very fanciful to persons who are 
satisfied with Pagan fables.” 

“ They do not satisfy me, and I will find out this secret.” 

“ For my part,” said the chaplain, “ I think there must be an 
escapement in some other part of the fountain.” 

“ Certainly,” said Consuelo, “ otherwise it would always overflow.” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” said the chaplain, unwilling to confess that 
the idea occurred to him for the first time. “ One need not go far to 
ascertain so simple a thing. There must, though, be some derange- 
ment in the canals since the spring does not maintain its old level.” 

“ Are those natural veins, or artificial aqueducts ? ” said the self- 
willed Consuelo. “ It is important to ascertain this.” 

“ No one can do so,” said the chaplain; “for Count Albert will per- 
mit no one to interfere with his fountain, and has positively ordered 
that it shall not be cleaned out.” 

“ I was sure of it,” said Consuelo, going away. “ I think you are 
right to respect his wishes; for God only knows what may be the 
result if his syren be contradicted.” 

“ It seems clear to me,” said the chaplain, as she left, “ that that 
young lady’s mind is as much out of order as Count Albert’s. Folly 
is contagious. Perhaps Porpora has sent her hither to be revived 
by country air. If I did not look at the obstinacy with which she 
insisted on explaining away the mystery of the fountain, I would be 
half inclined to think her the daughter of some canal-maker of Ve- 
nice, and pretending to know ali about such things. I can see, 
though, from her last words, and her hallucination about Zdenko this 
morning, and taking us up in the mountain, that it is a fancy of the 
same kind. She takes it into her head Count Albert is in the well. 
Poor children, will they ever become reasonable? ” 

The good chaplain then went to tell his beads until dinner time. 

Consuelo said to herself, “ Idleness and apathy must beget a strange 
weakness of mind, to make this holy man, who has read and learned 
so much, have no idea of my suspicions about this fountain. Forgive 
me, oh God! but that servant and minister of thine makes little use 
of his reason. They say Zdenko is imbecile ! ” Consuelo then went 
to give the young baroness a lesson in music, to while away the time, 
until she might be at liberty to begin her examination again. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ Have you ever been present at the falling of the water, or seen 
it re-ascend ? ” said Consuelo, in a low voice, to the chaplain, as he 
sat comfortably digesting his dinner during the evening. 

“ What — what did you say ? ” cried he, bounding up in his chair, 
and rolling his great round eyes. 

“ I was speaking to you of the cistern,” returned she, without be- 
ing disconcerted : “ have you ever yourself observed the occurrence 
of the phenomenon ? ” 

“ Ah, yes — the cistern — I remember,” replied he, with a smile of 
pity. “ There,” thought he, “ her crazy fit has attacked her again.” 

“ But you have not answered my question, my dear chaplain,” said 


182 


C O N S U E L O, 


Consuelo, who pursued her object with that kind of eagerness which 
characterised all her thoughts and actions, and which was not 
prompted in the least by any malicious feeling towards the wortliy 
man. 

“ I must confess, mademoiselle,” replied he, coldly, “ that I was 
never fortunate enough to observe that to which you refer; and I 
assure you I never lost my sleep on that account.” 

“ Oh, I am very certain of that,” replied the impatient Consuelo. 

The chaplain shrugged his shoulders, and with a great effort rose 
from his chair, in order to escape from so very ardent an inquirer. 

“ Well, since no one here is willing to lose an hour’s sleep for so im- 
portant a discovery, I will devote my whole night to it if necessary,” 
thought Consuelo; and while waiting for the hour of retiring, she 
wrapped herself in her mantle, and proceeded to take a turn in the 
garden. 

The night was cold and bright, and the mists of evening dispersed 
in proportion as the moon, then full, ascended towards the empyrean. 
The stars twinkled more palely at her approach, and the atmosphere 
was dry and clear. Consuelo, excited, but not overpowered, by the 
mingled effects of fatigue, want of sleep, and the generous, but per- 
haps rather unhealthy sympathy she experienced for Albert, felt a 
slight sensation of fever, which the cool evening air could not dissi- 
pate. It seemed to her as if she touched upon the fulfilment of her 
enterprise, and a romantic presentiment, which she interpreted as a 
command and encouragement from Providence, kept her mind un- 
easy and agitated. She seated herself upon a little grassy hillock, 
studded with larches, and began to listen to the feeble and plaintive 
sound of the streamlet at the bottom of the valley. But it seemed to 
her as if another voice, stilt more sweet and plaintive, mingled with 
the murmurings of the water and by degrees floated upwards to her 
ears. She stretched herself upon the turf, in order, being nearer the 
earth, to hear better those light sounds which the breeze wafted 
towards her every moment. At last she distinguished Zdenko’s voice. 
He sang in German, and by degrees she could distinguish the follow- 
ing words, tolerably well arranged to a Bohemian air, which was 
characterised by the same simple and plaintive expression as those 
she had already heard : — 

“ There is down there, down there, a soul in pain and in labor, 
which awaits her deliverance. 

“Her deliverance, her consolation, so often promised. 

“ The deliverance seems enchained, the consolation seems pitiless. 

“ There is down there, down there, a soul in pain and in labor which 
is weary of waiting.” 

When the voice ceased singing Consuelo rose, looked in every di- 
rection for Zdenko, searching the whole park and garden to find him, 
called him in various places, but was obliged to return to the castle 
without having seen him. 

But an hour afterwards, when the whole household had joined in a 
long prayer for Count Albert, and when everybody had retired to rest, 
Consuelo hastened to place herself near the Fountain of Tears, and 
seating herself upon the maigin, amid the thick mosses and water 
plants which grew there naturally, and the irises which Albert had 
planted, she fixed her eyes upon the motionless water, in which the 
moon, then arrived at the zenith, was reflected as in a mirror. 

After the lapse of about an hour, as the courageous girl, overcome by 


C O N S U E L O. 


183 


fatigue, felt her eyelids close, she was awakened by a light murmur on 
the surface of the water. She looked around, and saw the reflection 
of the moon vibrating on the mirror of the fountain. At the same 
time a bubbling and an indistinct noise, at first imperceptible, but 
growing gradually impetuous, was heard. She saw the water gradu- 
ally sink; and in a quarter of an hour disappear. Sbe ventured to 
descend a few steps. The stairway, which seemed to have been made 
to enable the tide level of the water to be reached, was forined of vast 
blocks of granite cut in a spiral form. The slippery steps afforded her 
no resting-place, and descended to a great depth. Darkness, the drip- 
ping of the rest of the water down the immeasurable precipices, and 
the impossibility of a steady step, put an end to the mad attempt of 
Consuelo. She ascended, with her face looking downwards, with great 
difficulty, and pale and terrified, sat on the first step. 

The waters seemed to sink in the bowels of the earth. The noise 
became more and more indistinct, and Consuelo had almost resolved 
to go fora light to examine the interior of the cistern. She was, how- 
ever, afraid that the person she expected would not come, and there- 
fore was motionless for half an hour. At last she fiincied that she 
saw a faint light at the bottom of the well, which seemed gradually to 
grow near her. She was soon relieved of all doubt, for she saw Zden- 
ko come up the stairway, holding on by ati iron chain which was fas- 
tened to the rock. The noise he made, as he took hold of the chain 
and again let it go, informed Consuelo of the existence of a regular 
stairway, and relieved her from all anxiety. Zdenko had a lantern, 
which he hung on a hook, intended to be used for the purpose, and 
which was about twenty feet below the ground. He tlien came rap- 
idly up the rest of the stairway without using the chain or any appar- 
ent aid. Consuelo looked at him with the greatest attention, ami saw 
him assist himself by various points of the rock, and by several para- 
sitic plants which seemed more vigorous than the other, and it may 
be, by various nails driven into the wall, with the position of which 
1)6 was familiar. As soon as he was able to see Consuelo, she hid her- 
self behind the balustrade, at the top of the stairway. Zdenko went 
out and began to gather with much care certain choice flowers. He 
then went into Albert’s rootn through a glass dooi-, and Consuelo saw 
him look among the books for one which he seemed at last to find. 
He then returned to the cistern with a smile on his face, and at the 
same time talking almost inaudibly, as if he was afraid to awaken the 
inmates of the house, and yet was anxious to talk to himself. 

Consuelo had not, as yet, asked herself whether she should speak to 
him and ask him to take her to Albert. To tell the truth, she was at 
this time amazed at what she saw, and rejoiced at having had a pre- 
sentiment of what she saw to be the truth. She had not courage 
enough, though, to venture to descend into the bowels of the earth, 
and suffered Zdenko to descend again, take his lantern and disappear 
— his voice resuming its power as he went into the depths of his re- 
treat: — “ Liberty is manacled and consolation is pitiless.” 

With a beating heart and a neck outstretched, Consuelo ten times 
at least was on the point of recalling him. She was resolved at one 
time to make a heroic effort, when she remembered that from surprise 
the poor man might quail and tremble, and that dizziness might cause 
his death. She did not therefore call, but resolved on the next day to 
be more courageous, and to call him at the proper time. 

She waited to see the water rise, and on this occasion it did so more 


CONSUELO. 


184 

rapidly. Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed since Zdenko^s 
voice became inaudible and the light of his lantern invisible, when a 
hoarse noise, not unlike the rolling of distant thunder, was heard. 
The water rushed up violently, whirling around the walls of the well 
and boiling impetuously. This sudden rush of water was so violent 
that Consuelo trembled for poor Zdenko, and asked hei-self if in thus 
sporting with danger and controlling the powers of nature, he was not 
in danger of being carried away, and some day of reappearing on the 
surface of the water crushed and bruised, like the slimy plants she 
saw floating on the surface. 

“ Yet everything must necessarily be very simple. He needed only 
to lift up or shut down a flood-gate— perhaps he had only to push 
down a stone as he entered, and remove it as he left. Might not this 
man, always preoccupied and immersed in reveries, be mistaken some 
day and move the stone a moment too soon ? Did he come up by the 
same passage which led from the spring? 1 must go through, though, 
either with or without him, and that at no more remote an hour than 
the next night—* For a soul is in toil below waiting for, and anxious 
because I do not come.’ That was not sung by chance, and not with- 
out difliculty did Zdenko, who hates German and pronounces it im- 
perfectly, speak to-day in that tongue.” 

At last she went to bed, but passed the whole night a prey to terri- 
ble night-mares. Fever was beginning; she was not aware of it, so 
full was she of power and resolution. Every now and then, though, 
she awoke suddenly, imagining that she was yet on the stairs of that 
terrible well, without being able to ascend them, while the water rose 
around her rapidly as possible. 

She was on the next day so changed that everybody remarked it. 
Tlie chaplain could not help saying to the canoness, that this “ agree- 
able and obliging person ” seemed to be a little deranged. The good 
Wenceslawa, who. was unused to see so much courage and devotion, 
began to fancy that the young daughter was very excitable and ner- 
vous. , Site had too much confidence in her iron-bound doors and the 
keys which always hung at her belt, to fancy it possible for Zdenko to 
enter and leave at night. She then spoke kindly to Consuelo, and be- 
sought her not to identify herself with their family misfortunes, and 
endanger her health. She also sought to give her hopes of the speedy 
return of her nephew, though she had began to lose all hope of it her- 
self. Indeed, she was under the influence of both hope and fear, 
when Consuelo replied to her with a glance brilliant with satisfac- 
tion — 

“You are right to think and hope so, madam. Count Albert is 
alive and not sick, I hope. He yet is anxious about his books and 
flowers in his retreat — I am certain of it, and can satisfy you.” 

“ What mean you, my child?” said Wenceslawa, overcome by her 
manner. “ What have you discovered? Tell me, for heaven’s sake. 
Restore peace to our family.” 

“ Tell Count Christian that his son is alive and not far away. It is 
as true as that I love and respect you.” 

The canoness went at once to her brother, who had not yet come 
down stairs. A glance and sigh, however, from the chaplain, induced 
her to pause. “ Let us not without care give such pleasure to my 
poor Christian,” said she. “ What if the fact should soon contradict 
your promises ! Ah ! my child, we would then be the murderers of 
the unfortunate father.” 


CONSUELO. 


185 


*‘Do yon then doubt my word?” said Consnelo, amazed. 

“God keep me from doing so, my noble Nina: you may be mis- 
taken. — Alas! that often happens to us. You say you have proofs, 
my dear child — can you not mention them? ” 

“ I cannot — at least it seems to me that I cannot,” said Consuelo, 
with embarrassment. “ I have discovered a secret, to which Count 
Albert certainly attaches much importance, and I cannot betray it 
without his consent.” 

“ Without his consent! ” said the canoness, looking at the chaplain 
with an expression of doubt. “ Can she have seen him? ” 

The chaplain shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, without under- 
standing the grief he thus inflicted on Wenceslawa. 

“ I have not seen him,” said Consuelo; “I will soon, however, do 
so, and so too will you. For that reason I shall be afraid, if I contra- 
dict his wishes, to prevent his return.” 

“ May divine truth make its home in your heart, generous being,” 
said Wenceslawa, looking at her anxiously and sorrowfully. “ Keep 
your secret, if you have one, and restore Albert to us if you can. All 
I know is, that if this be ever realized, I shall kiss your knees as I now 
do your poor brow — humid and burning as it is,” said she. After 
having kissed the young girl, she looked towards the chaplain with an 
excited air. 

“If she is mad,” she said to the latter, as soon as she could speak 
without witnesses, “ she is yet an angel of goodness, and seems to be 
more occupied with our sufferings than we are ourselves. Ah ! my 
father, there is a malediction weighing over this house. All that have 
any sublimity of feeling are attacked with madness, and our life is 
passed in complaining of what we are forced to admire.” 

“I do much admire the kind emotions of this young stranger,” said 
the chaplain.* “You may, however, be sure that she is mad. She 
dreamed of Count Albert last night, and represents her visions as cer- 
tainties. Be careful to leave undisturbed the pious and submissive 
heart of your brother. Perhaps, too, you should not encourage the 
temerity of this Signorina Porporina. They may precipitate her into 
dangers of another kind than those she has hitherto been willing to 
brave.” 

“I do not understand you,” said the canoness, with grave naivete. 

“ I fipd not a little difficulty in explaining myself,” said the worthy 
man. “ Yet it appears to me, that if a secret understanding, innocent 
though it be, should be established between this young artist and the 
count ” 

“ Well? ” said tlie canoness, staring. 

“Well! madam, do you not think that sentiments of interest and 
anxiety, innocent however they might be at first, from the force of 
circumstances and the influence of romantic ideas, may become dan- 
gerous to the repose and quiet of the young artist? ” 

“ I never would have thought of that,” said the canoness, who was 
struck with the reflection. “So you think, father, that Porporina 
can so far forget her humble and uncertain position, in associating 
with one so far above her as the Count of Rudolstadt, my nephew? ” 

“ The Count of Rudolstadt might himself aid her in doing so, with- 
out the intention, however, from the manner in which he spoke of 
the advantage of rank and birth.” 

“ You make me very uneasy,” said Wenceslawa, all the family pride 
of whom was awakened. — “ This was her only bad trait. Can the 


186 


CONSUELO. 


idea have germinated in the young girl’s mind? Can there be in her 
agitation and anxiety to find Albert, more than her attachment to 
us?” 

“ As yet I think not,” said the canon, who had no wish but by his 
advice and counsel, to play an important part in the family, though 
he all the time preserved the air of obsequious submission. “You 
must, however, my dear daughter, keep your eyes open to the course 
of events, and your vigilance must never forget such dangers. This 
is a delicate role, and it suits you precisely. It requires the consola- 
tion with which God has gifted you.” 

After this conversation, the canoness seemed completely overcome. 
She forgot that Albert w'as, as it were, lost to her, and was now dying 
or dead, and remembered only the horrors of an unequal match, as 
she called it. She was like the Indian in the fable, who having as- 
cended a tree while under the influence of terror in the form of a 
tiger, amused himself by driving a fly from his head. 

She watched all day every motion of Porporina, and carefully an- 
alyzed every word and act. Our heroine — for such she was in every 
sense of the term — saw this, but did not attribute it to any other mo- 
tive than the desire to see her keep her promise, by restoring Albert. 
She did not think it worth while to conceal her own agitation, so calm 
and quiet did her conscience seem, for she was rather proud of her 
plan than ashamed of it. This modest confusion, which a few days 
before had awakened the young count’s enthusiasm, was dissipated at 
the touch of a serious determination, free from any personal vanity. 
The bitter sarcasms of Amelia, who had a presentiment of her enter- 
prise, without any knowledge of ‘its details, did not at all excite her; 
she scarcely heard her and replied to her by smiles. She suffered 
the canoness— the ears of whom were always open — the care of regis- 
tering, commenting on, and interpreting them. 


CHAPTER XL. 

Yet, when she saw herself watched by Wenceslawa as she had 
never been, Consuelo was afraid of being contradicted by mistaken 
zeal, and remained calm, cold, and cautious as possible, by means of 
which she escaped during the day, and went with a light heart t'> 
Schreckenstein. In doing so she had no idea but to meet Zdenko, and 
force him to an explanation, and make him inform her if he would 
take her to Albert. She found him neai- the castle, on the road to the 
mountain. He seemed to come towards her, and spoke Bohemian 
with great rapidity. 

“ Alas! I do not understand you,” said Consuelo, when she was able 
to interrupt him. “ I scarcely know German, that harsh language 
you hate, as the badge of slavery, and which reminds me of exile. 
Since, though, there is no other means for us to understand each 
other, speak it with me. We each understand it slightly, and I will 
learn Bohemian if you will teach me.” 

These words appealed to Zdenko’s sympathies, and he gave Consue- 
lo his hard hand, which she did not hesitate to clasp. “ Blessed child,” 
said he, “ I will teach you my language and all my songs. What 
shall I begin with ? ” 


C O N S U E L O. 


187 

Consnelo tlioiiglit she would humor his whim by making use of the’ 
same means of interrogation. “ I wish you,” safd she, “ to sing me 
the ballad of Count Albert.” 

“ There are,” said he, “ more than two hundred thousand ballads 
about my brother Albert. I cannot teach them to you, for you can- 
not understand them. I make new ones every day altogether differ- 
ent from the ()ld ones. Ask something else.” 

“ Why shall I not understand them ? I am consolation. I am 
named Consuelo to you and to Count Albert, who alone knows me 
here.” 

“ You Consuelo,” said Zdenko, laughing in derison. “ You do not 
know what you say; deliverance is bound.” 

“ I know that; consolation is pitiless. You, though, know nothing, 
Zdenko. Liberty has broken its chains, and consolation its fetters.” 

“ No, no. Folly and German words,” said Zdenko, repressing his 
tricks and laughter, “ you cannot sing.” 

“ Yes, I can. Listen,” — and she sang the first verse of his song on 
the three mountains, which she had retained in her memory, "and 
which Amelia had taught her to pronounce. 

Zdenko listened with delight, and said, with a sigh, “ I love you 
dearly; shall I-teach you another song? ” 

“Yes; that of Count Albert, first in German; the Bohemian you 
shall teach me at some other time.” 

“ How does it begin ?” said Zdenko, looking mischievously at her. 

Consuelo began in a low tone the song she had heard on the pre- 
vious evening. “ There is below, there is below, a soul in labor and 
pain.” 

“ Ah! that was yesterday’s song; to-day I have forgotten it,” said 
Zdenko, interrupting her. 

“ Well, tell me to-day’s.” 

“ Let me have the first words. That you must tell me.” 

“ The first words? Here they are, — ‘ Count Albert is below in the 
cavern of S.chreckenstcin.’ ” 

No sooner had she pronounced these words than Zdenko at once 
changed his air and manner. He stepped backwards several paces 
and lifted up his hands as if he was about to curse her. At the same 
time he began to speak Bohemian with all the energy of anger and 
menace. 

At first she was alarmed, but seeing that he was about to go, she 
sought to retain yim. He turned round, and seizing a stone, so large 
that he could scarcely hold it with his thin, skeleton hands, he said — 
“Zdenko hitherto has done wrong to no one; Zdenko would not 
break the wing of a fly, and if a child wished to kill him he would 
submit. If you look at me again — if you speak to me, false and 
treacherous Austrian, daughter of the evil one — Zdenko will crush 
you as he would a worm, and then cast himself into the torrent to 
wipe away the stain of human blood ! ’’ 

Consuelo fled in terror, and met at the end of the path a peasant, 
who, amazed at seeing her run so pale and terror-stricken, asked her 
if she had met a wolf. 

Consuelo, anxious to ascertain if Zdenko was liable to such attacks, 
told him she had met the innocent, who had frightened her. 

“ You should not fear him,” said the peasant, smiling at what he 
thought her timidity. “Zdenko is a good fellow, and either laughs 
or sings, or tells stories which we do not understand, but which are 
very beautiful.” 


188 


C O N S U E L O, 


• “ But he gets angry sometimes, and then threatens and throws 

stones.” 

No. no,” said the peasant, “ that never has happened, and never 
will. You must not be afraid of Zdenko, who is an angel.” 

When she had recovered, Consuelo thought the peasant must be 
right, and that by her imprudence she had provoked the only attack 
of madness he had ever suffered with. She reproached herself bit- 
terly, and said — “ I was too eager, and have awakened in the quiet 
soul of this man, deprived of what they proudly call reason, a suffer- 
ing he has hitherto been ignorant of, but which will now take posses- 
sion of him on every opportunity. He was a maniac, and perhaps I 
have made him incurably mad.” 

She became yet more sad when she sought for the motives of Zden- 
ko’s anger. It was now certain that her suspicions were verified of 
Albert’s retreat in Schreckenstein. With what zealous care did Albert 
and Zdenko conceal the secret from them. She was not privileged — 
she had no influence over Count Albert, and this feeling which had 
induced him to call her his Consolation, the care he had taken the 
evening before to attract lier attention by a symbolic chaunt, ha«l 
been but a momentary whim, without any true and constant inspira- 
tion pointing to her rather than another as his consolei’ and libei-a- 
trix. This very word. Consolation, pronounced and divined by him, 
was a mere matter of chance. She had concealed from no one that 
she was Spanish, and her maternal language was yet more familiar to 
her than Italian. Albert, enchanted by her voice, and aware of no 
more energetic expression than that which expressed the idea he was 
so anxious about, and which so completely engrossed his imagination, 
had spoken in a tongue he knew perfectly, and which no one else 
about them understood. 

Consuelo had never been so much deceived in this respect. Still, so 
fanciful and so ingenious a coincidence had seemed to her something 
providential, and her imagination had seized upon it without much 
examination. 

But now everything wa.s once more doubtful. Had Albert, in some 
new phase of his mania, forgotten the feeling he had experienced for 
her? Was she henceforth useless for his relief, powerless for his wel- 
fare? or was Zdenko, who had appeared so intelligent and earnest in 
seconding Albert’s designs, more hopelessly deranged than Consuelo 
had been willing to suppose? Did he merely execute the orders of 
his friend, or did he completely forget them, when he furiously for- 
bade to the young girl all approach to the Schreckelistein, and all in- 
sight into the truth ? 

“ Well,” whispered Amelia on her return, “ did you see Albert this 
evening floating in the sunset clouds? or will you make him come 
down the chimney to-night by some potent spell ? ” 

“Perhaps so,” replied Consuelo, a little provoked. It was the first | 
time in her life that she felt her pride wounded. She had entered upon 
her enterprise with so pure and disinterested a feeling, so earnest and 
high-minded a purpose, that she suffered deeply at the idea of being 
bantered and despised for want of success. 

She was dejected and melancholy all the evening; and the canoness, 
who remarked the change, did not fail^to atti-ibute it to her fear of 
having disclosed the fatal attachment which had been born in her 
heart. 

The canoness was strangely deceived. If Consuelo had nourished 


CONSUELO. 


189 


the first seeds of a new passion, she would have been an entire stran- 
ger to the fervent faith and holy confidence which had hitherto guid- 
ed and sustained her. But so Var from this, she had perhaps never 
experienced the poignant return of her former passion more strongly, 
than under these circumstances, when she strove to withdraw herself 
from it by deeds of heroism and a sort of exalted humanity. 

When she returned to her room, she saw on her spinet an old gild- 
ed book with the coats of arms engraved on it. She saw at once it 
W'as an old book she had seen in Albert’s room, and that Zdenko had 
taken away on the previous night. She opened it at the place where 
there was a mark. This was at the place where the psalm JDe pro- 
fundis clamavi ad te begins. These Latin w'ords were underlined 
W’ith an ink which was as yet scarcely dried, for it had run into the 
next page. She looked through the w'hole book, which was a famous 
old Bible, knowm as that of de Kralic’s, and published in 1579. She 
found in it no note, no indication wdience it came. A simple cry, 
though, seemed to come from the earth, as it were from the abyss; 
not, perhaps, significative, but eloquent. What a contradiction there 
was between the formal and constant vow of Albert and the recent 
behavior of Zdenko. 

This last idea arrested Consuelo’s attention. Albert was sick and 
overcome at the depth of the cavern, which she supposed was beneath 
the Schreckenstein, and was perhaps retained there by the mad love 
of Zdenko. Perhaps he was a victim to this madman, who perhaps 
loved, though he kept him his prisoner. Yielding sometimes to his 
wish to return to the upper earth, and fulfilling all his messages to 
Consuelo, though sometimes he prevented his success, by interpos- 
ing a kind of indefinite terror. 

“ Well,” said she, “ I wdll go, if I even have to confront the ridicu- 
lous folly of fools and egotists; I will go, even if the person who calls 
me dares to humiliate me by his indifference. How, though, can I be 
humiliated, if he is, perhaps, as mad as poor Zdenko? I shall only 
have to pity both of them; and then, I will have done my duty. I 
shall have obeyed the voice of God who inspires me, and his hand, 
which impels me with irresistible force.” 

The feverish state in which she had been for some days, and which 
since she had seen Zdenko, had replaced a painful languor, again ex- 
hibited itself in her soul and body. She regained all her power, and 
'concealing from Amelia both her design and the book, exchanged va- 
rious pleasant words with her, saw her go to sleep, and set out for the 
fountain of tears, with a little dark lantern she had procured on that 
very morning. 

She waited for a long time, and was forced to go more than once 
into Albert’s studio, to revive her halt-chilled limbs by a warmer at- 
mosphere. She ventured to look over this enormous mass of books, 
not arranged on shelves as in a library, but cast pell-mell on the floor, 
as if in contempt and disgust. She ventured to open several of them. 
Almost all of them were in Latin, and Consuelo at once conceived the 
idea that they were on religious controversy, and had either emanated 
from the Roman church, or been approved by it. She S'mght to as- 
certain their titles, but, just then, heard the water bubbling in the 
fountain. She went thitiier, putting out her light, and hid herself 
until Zdenko cjime. He, on this occasion, paused neither in the pai- 
terre nor in the library. He went through the two rooms, and left 
Albert’s apartment, as Consuelo ascertained at a later time, to go and 


C o N S U E L (). 


190 

list^ at the oratory of Count Christian, to ascertain if the old mau 
was awake in trouble, or sound asleep. This anxiety was always ex- 
erting not a little influence over him, though Albert, as we shall see 
by-and-by, had never thought about it. 

Consuelo did not at ail doubt about the course she should adopt: 
her plans had already been formed, fehe had no longer any confi- 
dence either in the honor or the benevolence of Zdenko, and wished 
to see him whom she considered a prisoner, and, as it were, under 
guard. There was certainly but one way of passing under ground 
from the castle cisteiai to Schreckenstein. If this way was difficult 
and dangerous, at all events, it was practicable, for Zdenko passed 
through it every night. At all events, light would be of advantage; 
and Consuelo had provided herself with light, a piece of steel, wad- 
ding, and a flint, to be able to strike a light whenever she pleased. 
What made her sure of reaching Schreckenstein in this manner, was 
an old story she had heard told by the canoness, in relation to a siege 
of the Teutonic knights. 

“ The knights,” said Wenceslawa, “ had in their very refectory a 
cistern, through which they obtained water from the neighboring 
mountain, and when their spies went out to watch the enemy, they 
exhausted the cistern, and passed through its subterranean conduits 
to a village which belonged to them.” 

Consuelo remembered that, according to the chronicle of the coun- 
try, the village which was on the hill, known as Schreckenstein, had, 
since the conflagration, depended on the Giant’s fortress, and had, in 
time of siege, maintained secret communications with it. She had, 
then, sufficient reason to search out this communication and this 
issue. 

She took advantage of Zdenko’s absence to descend into the well. 
Before she went, she recommended herself to God, and tnade the 
sign of the cross, as she did in the theatre of Saint Samuel, before she 
appeared on the stage, for the first time. She then descended the 
winding staircase, and looked for the chain, &c., which she had seen 
Zdenko hold on by, taking care, to avoid vertigo, not to look down. 
She got hold of the iron chain without any difficulty, and when she 
had done so, felt herself at ease. Then she ventured to look down. 
There was yet some water, and this discovery caused her not a little 
emotion. Soon, however, she recovered her presence of mind — the 
well might be very deep, yet the opening through which Zdenko came, 
could not be very far dowm. She had already gone down fifty steps, 
with an address and activity of which young girls educated in draw- 
ing-rooms are ignorant, but which people of the lower ordeis acquire 
in their childhood’s games, and the hardy confidence of which they 
pieserve through all their life. The only real danger was in passing 
over damp steps. Consuelo found in one of the corners an old hat 
the Baron Frederick used to wear when he hunted. She took pos- 
session of it, and made sandals which she tied on her shoes, after the 
fashion of the old cothurni. She had observed that Zdenko w^as sim- 
ilarly shod. With' his felt shoes ZdeidvO passed noiselessly through 
the corridors of the castle, and seemed to glide rather than walk. 
Thus the Hussites had been wont to shoe their spies, and even their 
horses, when they wished to surprise the enemy. At the fifty-second 
step, Consuelo found a kind of landing-place, with a stairway. She 
did not hesitate to enter it, and to advance, half-bent, into a narrow 
subterranean gallery, dripping with water, and which evidently had 
been wrought by the hand of man. 


CONSUELO. 


191 


She proceeded down it without any difficulty, for sojie minutes, 
when she fancied she heard a slight noise behind her. Zdenko, per- 
haps, was returning to the mountain. She was, however, in advance 
of him, and increased her pace to avoid so dangerous a companion. 
He could not suspect that she was in advance of him. He had no 
reason to run after her; and, while he amused himself by muttering 
alone his complaints and interminable stories, she would be able to 
place herself under Albert’s protection. 

The noise she had heard increased, and became like that of water, 
which growls, struggles, and bursts forth. What had happened? 
Had Zdenko become aware of her intention ? Had he pulled up the 
floodgate to destroy her? He could not do so, however, until he had 
passed her, and now he was behind her. This leflection gave her 
very ‘little confidence. Zdenko was capable of destroying and of 
di'owning himself rather than betray Albert. Consuelo, nevertheless, 
saw no floodgate, nothing to restrain the water. It must, therefore, 
come from below, yet the noise seemed to have its origin behind her. 
It increased, however, came nearer to her, and seemed to have the 
voice of thunder. 

Suddeidy Consuelo made a horrible discovery, and saw that the gal- 
lery, instead of ascending, descended, at first, gently, and then by a 
more rapid inclination. She had mistaken her way, in her anxiety, 
and in the dense vapor exhaled from the cistern, she had not seen the 
second and larger entrance, which was opposite the one she had taken. 
She had gone into the passage way, which served as a kind of escape 
pipe, instead of ascending the one which led to the reservoir or to the 
source. Zdenko, who had taken the opposite direction, had quietly 
lifted up the flood-gate, and the cistern was already filled to the level 
of the escape pipe. The water was already rushing into the gallery 
where Consuelo was, completely overcome by amazenjent. Ere long, 
this gallery, which was so contrived that the cistern, losing less water 
than it received, became filled, and had something to spare. In the 
twinkling of an eye, the escape was inundated, and began to roll down 
the declivity. The vault, already humid, bade fair, ere long, to be filled, 
and there was no prospect of escape. Kapidity of flight would not save 
the unhappy fugitive from the torrent. The air w'as already intercept- 
ed by the mass of water which w'as rushing dowm with a great noise. 
A stifling heat interfered with respiration, and did as much as fear and 
despair to suspend animation. Consuelo already heard the mutter- 
ing of the stream. A red foam, the unpromising herald of the flood, 
sped over the pavement, and preceded the uncertain steps of the terri- 
fied victim. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

“Omy mother!” she cried, “open thine arms to receive me! O 
Anzoleto, I love thee! O my God, receive my soul into a better 
world ! ” 

Hardly had she uttered this cry of agony to heaven, when she 
tripped and stumbled over some object in her path. O surprise! O 
divine goodness! It is a steep and narrow staircase, opening from 


192 


CONSUELO, 


one of the walls of the gallery, and up which she ruslies on the wings 
of fear and of hope! The vault rises before her — the torrent dashes 
forward — strikes the staircase which Consuelo had just time to clear 
— engulfs the first ten steps — wets to the ankle the agile feet which 
fly before it, and filling at last to the vaulted roof the gallery which 
Consuelo had left behind her, is swallowed up in darkness, and falls 
with a horrible din into a deep reservoir, which the heroic girl looks 
down upon from a little platform she has reached on her knees and 
in darkness. 

Her candle had been extinguished. A violent gust of wind had 
preceded the irruption of the mass of waters. Consuelo fell prostrate 
upon the last step, sustained hitherto by the instinct of self-preserva- 
tion, but ignorant if she was saved — if the din of this catai-act was 
not a new disaster which was about to overtake her — if the cold spray 
which dashed up even to where she was kneeling, and bathed lier 
hair, was not the chilling hand of death extended to seize her. 

In the meantime, the reservoir is filled by degrees to the height of 
other deeper waste ways, which carry still farther into the bowels of 
the earth the current of the abundant spring. The noise diminishes, 
the vapors are dissipated, and a liollow and harmonious murmur 
echoes through the caverns. With a trembling hand, Consuelo suc- 
ceeds in relighting her candle. Her heart beats violently against her 
bosom, but her courage is restored, and throwing herself on her 
knees, she thanks God. Lastly, she examines the place in which she 
is, and throws the trembling light of her lantern upon the surround- 
ing objects. A vast cavern, hollowed by the hand of nature, is ex- 
tended like a roof over an abyss into which the distant fountain 
of the Schreckenstein flows, and loses itself in the recesses of the 
mountain. This abyss is so deep that the water which dashes into 
it cannot be seen at the bottom; but, when a stone is thrown in, it 
is heard falling for the space of two minutes, with a noise resem- 
bling thunder. The echoes of tlie cavern repeat it for a long time, 
and the hollow and frightful dash of the water is heard still longer, 
and might be taken for the bowlings of the infernal pack. At one 
side of this cavern a narrow dangerous path hollowed out of the 
rocks runs along the margin of the precipice, and is lost in another 
gallery where the labor of man ceases, and which takes an upward 
direction and leaves the course of the current as it turns towards 
more elevated regions. 

This was the course Consuelo had to take. There was no other: 
the water having a)mpletely filled the one through which she had 
come. It was impossible to wait in the, cavern for Zdenko. The 
dampness was deathly, and the torch began to grow pale, threatening 
to go out. 

Consuelo is not paralysed by the horror of her situation. She is 
well aware that she is not going towards Schreckenstein. The subter- 
raneous galleries which open before her are a sport of nature, and 
lead to impassable places or labyrinths, an outlet to which she can 
never find. She will yet venture to enter them, though only for the 
purpose of having an asylum until the next night. On the next night 
Zdenko will retui’ii; he will shut off the cuiaent, and the captive will 
be able to retrace her steps, and see the light of the stars again. 

Consuelo then sought to penetrate again the mysteries of the cav- 
ern. Her courage had levived ; and, on this occasion, she was atten- 
tive to all the accidents of the soil, and was careful to follow only the 


CONSUELO, 


193 


ascending paths, without consenting to turn aside to enter the more 
spacious galleries which she passed. By doing so, she was sure not 
to encounter any currents of water, and was able to retrace her steps. 

She passed over a thousand obstacles; vast stones encumbered her 
route ; from time to time huge bats, roused from their slumbers by the 
light of the lantern, came in whole battalions against her, and whirl- 
ed around her steps. After the first emotions of surprise, she felt her 
courage increase at every new terror. Sometimes she ascended vast 
blocks of stone which had fallen from the vaults above, showing that 
other masses were ready to follow them, being now retained by but 
a slight hold in fissures, twenty feet above them. Then the passage 
became so narrow, that Consuelo was forced to crawl through an in- 
tensely close air to force her way. She had been walking thus for 
about half an hour, when having turned a sharp angle, where her lithe 
and supple body had much difficulty in passing, she fell from Charyb- 
dis into Scylla, meeting Zdenko face to face. Zdenko at first was pet- 
rified with surprise, and chilled by terror; but soon became indignant 
and furious as we have already seen him. 

In this labyrinth, amid countless obstacles, by the quivering light of 
a torch, which, from want of air, was almost ready to go out — it was 
impossible to fly. The wild eye, the foaming lips of Zdenko, proved 
clearly enough that, on this occasion, he would not stop at menaces. 
He at once became strangely ferocious, and began to pick up large 
stones, placing them between Consuelo and himself, as if he would 
wall up the narrow gallery in which she was. Thus he was sure that 
if he did not empty the cistern for several days, she must die of hun- 
ger, precisely as the drone is starved to death, when -the bee closes up 
its cell with wax. 

Zdenko, however, made use of granite, and worked with strange 
rapidity. The physical power of this emaciated and apparently feeble 
man was so perfectly displayed, that Consuelo saw that resistance 
would be impossible, and that it was far better for her to find some 
means of escape by-retracing her steps, than to irritate and force him 
to extremities. 8he sought to soothe, to persuade, and to subdue him 
by words. 

“ Zdenko,” said she, “what are you at? Albert will never forgive 
you. He calls me; lam his fiiend, his consolation, and salvation. 
You destroy him when you destroy me.” 

Zdenko, afraid of being persuaded, and determined to carry out his 
idea, began to sing in his own tongue, in a loud and animated strain, 
working all the time at his Cyclopiaii task. 

One stone alone was required to complete the edifice. Consuelo 
saw him place it wdth terror. “ I shall,” said she, “ never be able to 
pull down that w^all. To do it a giant’s hands will be required.” The 
last stone was put up, and she saw that Zdenko was beginning an- 
other, leaning on the first. He was erecting a perfect fortress be- 
tw'een Albert and herself. He continued to sing, and seemed to take 
pleasure in his toil. 

A wonderful inspiration at last took possession of Consuelo. She 
remembered the famous heretical formula which had been explained 
by Amelia, at which the chaplain had been so much offended. 

“Zdenko,” said she, in Bohemian, through one of the orifices of 
the disjointed wall, “ let the one who has been injured salute you.” 

This phrase worked on Zdenko like magic. He let the enormous 
block he held fall, uttering at the same time a deep sigh, and began to 
12 


194 


C O N S U E L O. 


destroy his wall with more rapidity tlian he had erected it. fie then 
gave his hand to Consuelo, and assisted her to pass over the ruin ; 
after which he looked attentively at her, sighed strangely, and, giving 
her three keys tied together by a ribbon, pointed out the way to her, 
saying, “ Let the one who has been injured salute yon.” 

“ AVill you not be my guide? ” said she. “ Take me to your mas- 
ter.” 

Zdenko shook his head, saying, “ I have no master. I had a friend. 
You took him fi‘om me. Fate is being fulfilled. Go whither God 
directs you. I shall weep until you return.” 

Sitting down then on the ruins, he hid his face in his hands, and 
remained silent. 

Consuelo did not wait to console him. She was afraid his madness 
would return; and, taking advantage of the moment when he respect- 
ed her, set out like an arrow from the bow. In her uncertain and 
difficult journey Consuelo had not gone far, for Zdenko, proceeding 
by a longer route, but which was inaccessible to the water, had met 
her on tlie junction of the two caverns — the one made by the liand. 
of man — and the other, strange, distorted and dangerous, surrounded 
the castle and its dependencies, and even the hiil on which it was. 
Consuelo at this time had no doubt that she was under the park. , yet 
she passed through the gratings in a manner that all the keys ol’' the 
canoness coidd not prevent. She had an idea, after having proceeded 
for some distance on this route, to retrace her steps, and abandon an 
enterprise, in carrying out which she had already met with so many 
difficulties. Perhaps new difficulties yet awaited her. The ill temper 
of Zdenko might be aroused. What if she were pursued by him. 
He might build up a wall again to prevent lier return. If, however, 
she abandoned her plan, and asked him to show her the way to the 
cistern, she might find him kind and gentle. She was too much ex- 
cited, however, to venture again to meet this strange person. Her 
dread of him increased as she withdrew from him, and after having 
boldly confronted his anger, slie became afraid when she thought of 
it. She fled from him without daring to do any thing to win his favor, 
and hoped alone to find one of the magic doors, the keys of which he 
had given her, to thus put a barrier between the madman and herself. 

Was she not, however, about to meet Albert, another madman, wdiom 
she rashly persisted in thinking gentle and manageable, in a position 
similar to that of Zdenko towards her? Over the whole affair there 
was a thick veil; and w'hen she had divested herself of the influence 
of romantic ideas, Consuelo thought herself the most delirious of the 
three, in having rushed into this abyss of dangers and mysteries, with- 
out being sure of a favorable result.' 

She passed through a spacious cavern, which had been admirably 
wrought by the iron hands of the men of the middle age. All the pas- 
sages were cut in regular elliptical arches. The less compact portions, 
or chalky parts of the soil, wherever anything might give way, were 
sustained by well-cut stone columns, which united by the key-stones of 
this quadrangular vault. Consuelo lost no time in admiring this im- 
mense work, which had been constructed with a solidity that yet might 
defy centui ies. She did not even ask how it chanced to be that the 
present owners of the castle were ignorant of so important a w'ork. 
She might have explained it, had she remembered that all the histor- 
ical papers of the family had been destroyed more than a hundred 
years before, at the epoch of the war of the Keformatiou. She did not, 


C O N S U E L O. 


195 


however, look around her, for she thought of nothing but her own 
safety, being perfectly satisfied could she but find a plain surface, 
healthy air, and room to walk in. Slie had yet a long way to go, this 
direct path being longer than the tortuous winding of the mountain 
road, and being unable to find the light, she did not know whether the 
passage led to Schreckensteiu or to some far more distant spot. 

After walking about a quarter of an hour, she saw the arches ex- 
pand again, and all traces of the work of art disappear. Man, how- 
ever, had yet toiled in these vast passages and majestic grottoes, but 
vegetation having made its inroads, and receiving the air by numerous 
fissures, they looked a little less stern than the galleries. There were 
a thousand ways to avoid the pursuit of an angry enemy. A noise 
of rushing water, however, terrified Consuelo, and had she been able 

jest in such a place, she would have confessed that Baron Freder- 
ick on his return from hunting had never been so much afraid of 
water as she was. 

^ Yet she made use of her reason. She had constantly ascended 
since she left the precipice; and, unless Zdenko had control of an hy- 
draulic machine of immense power, he could not bring his terrible 
auxiliary, the torrent, to act against her. It was also evident that 
somewhere or other she must meet the current, the flood-gate, or the 
spring itself. Had she used more reflection she would have been 
amazed at not having met this mysterious fountain of tears which 
filled up the cistern. The reason was, the fountain had its origin in 
the hidden veins of the mountain, and the gallery ran at right angles 
with it, only very near the cistern, and again at the mountain, in the 
same direction as she herself had come. The flood-gate was then far 
behind her, in the route Zdenko had gone alone, and Consuelo was 
drawing near the spring which for two centuries no one but Albert 
and Zdenko had seen. She soon saw the current, and followed it 
without either fear or danger. 

A path of fresh sand led along this limpid and transparent stream, 
which ran with a cheerful noise through a bed carefully walled in. 
Here human labor again became apparent. This path was graded 
with rich and fertile soil, for beautiful aquatic plants, enormous wall- 
flowers, and wild brambles grew without shelter or protection. The 
external air penetrated through a multitude of orifices and crevices 
sutficiently to support vegetation, but which did not suflSce to enable 
them to be seen from without. It was as it were a natural hot-house, 
protected from frost and snow, but ventilated by countless loopholes. 
One might have thought these beautiful plants had been carefully 
protected, and that the sand had been heaped up on the stones, to 
keep them from injuring the feet. This really was the case, for Zden- 
ko had made Albert’s retreat beautiful and approachable. 

Consuelo had begun to feel the influence of a less stern and poetic 
aspect of external things on her imagination. When she saw the pale 
rays of the moon pass through the orifices of the rock and fall on the 
quivering water, when she felt the forest air from time to time fall on 
the motionless plants which were above the reach of the water, she 
knew she approached the surface of the ground and felt her strength 
revive. She began to picture to herself in the most lively colors the 
reception which awaited her. At last she saw the path turn aside from 
the stream and enter a newly-made gallery. She paused at a little door 
which seemed made of metal it was so cold, and around which a huge 
ivy hung like a frame. 


196 


' C O S U E L O. 

When she saw herself at the termination of all her fatigues and 
doubts, when she placed her weary hand on this last obstacle, which 
she could pass instantly, for she had a key in the other hand, Consuelo 
hesitated, and experienced a timidity which was less easy to overcome 
than all her terrors. She was now about to enter a place closed to 
every eye, to every human thought, to disturb the slumbers or medita- 
tions of a man whom she scarcely knew, who was neither her father, 
brother, nor husband — who loved her, perhaps, but whom she neither 
could nor would love. “ God,” said she, “ has led me hither, amid 
the most wonderful daiigers. Through his aid and protection I am 
come hither. I came with a fervent soul, a resolution full of charity, 
a tranquil breast, pure conscience, and a heart entirely sincere. Per- 
haps death awaits me, yet I am not afraid. My life is lonely, and I 
shall not be sorry to lose it. That I proved but a few moments ago, 
and only an hour since, I saw myself devoted to a horrible death with 
a calmness which amazed myself. This is, perhaps, a grace God vouch- 
safes me at my last hour. I shall, it may be, fall beneath the blow of 
a madman, yet I march to that catastrophe with the firmness of a 
martyr. I have an ardent faith in the Eternal, and feel that if 1 perish 
here the victim perhaps of useless devotion, deeply religious though it 
be, I will be rewarded in a happier existence. What delays me ? Why 
do I experience inextricable trouble, as if I were about to err, and 
blush before him I would save? ” 

Thus Consuelo, too modest to comprehend her very modesty, strug- 
gled against herself, and looked on the delicacy of her emotion almost 
as a crime. It, however, occurred to her that perhaps she might be ex- 
posed to a danger greater than death. Her chastity could not con- 
ceive the idea of her becoming the victim of a madman’s brutal pas- 
sions. She became, however, instinctively afraid at seeming to obey a 
less exalted and less divine sentiment than that which animated her. 
She put the key in the lock, and made more than ten efforts before she 
could determine to turn it. An overpowering fatigue, an excessive 
weakness in her whole frame, destroyed her resolution, at the very mo- 
ment she was about to be rewarded — on earth, by the performance of 
a noble act of charity ! — in heaven, by a sublime death ! 


CHAPTER XLII. 

Nevertheless, her part was taken. She had received three keys, 
whence she judged that she had three doors to open and two apart- 
ments to traverse, before reaching that in which she supposed Albert 
to be a prisoner. She had, therefore, time enough to stop, in case her 
strength should fail her. She entered a vaulted chamber, containing 
no other furniture than a bed of dry heather, covered with a sheep- 
skin. A pair of old-fashioned shoes, however, in a most remarkable 
state of dilapidation, served to indicate to her that this was Zdenko’s 
bed-chamber. She also recognised the small fruit-basket which she 
had left on the Stone of Terror, and which, after a lapse of two days, 
had at length disappeared. She determined now to open the second 
door, after having carefully closed the first; for she still reflected with 
terror on the possible return of the fierce possessor of that strange 


C O N S U E L O. 


197 

abode. The second apartment into which she passed was vaulted like 
the first, but the walls were hung with matting and with wicker-work, 
stuffed with moss. A stove diffused a pleasant warmth through the 
chamber, and it was, beyond doubt, from its chimney pierced through 
the solid rock that the dreary light which Consuelo had seen on the 
summit of the Schreckenstein was produced. Albert’s bed, like that 
of Zdenko’s, was no more than a mass of dry leaves and grass; but 
Zdenko had covered it with a superb bear-skin, in spite of the abso- 
lute equality on which Albert insisted in their relations, and to which 
Zdenko agreed on all respects, where it did not clash with the extreme 
love he bore him, and the anxious preference which he himself 
awarded to his patron. In this apartment Consuelo was received by 
Cynabre, who when he heard the key turn in the lock, had taken his 
post on the threshold with a menacing eye and erected ear. But 
Cynabre had been educated by his master not as a guardian, but as a 
friend. He had been prohibited from his earliest youth to bay or 
howl, so that he had lost the natural habit of his species. Still, had 
any one approached Albert with evil intentions, he would have recov- 
ered his voice; had anyone attacked, he would furiously have defend- 
ed him. But, prudent and circumspect as a hermit, he never made 
the slightest noise without being sure of his ground, and without hav- 
ing carefully examined persons and scented their garments. He ap- 
proached Consuelo with a look almost as intelligent as that of human- 
ity, smelt her dress for some time, as well as her hand, in which she 
had been holding Zdenko’s keys, and, as if completely satisfied by 
that circumstance, abandoned himself to the friendly recollections he 
had retained of her, and, rearing himself up on his hind legs, laid his 
great hairy paws on her shoidder, while he swept the ground with his 
fine tail in mute and stately,.) oy. After that grave and decorous 
greeting, he returned and lay down on the corner of the bear-skin 
which covered Albert’s bed, and stretched himself out on it with 
something of the lassitude of old age, but not without watching 
every movement of Consuelo with steady eyes. 

Before she dared to approach the third door, Consuelo cast a glance 
over the arrangement of that hermitage, in order to derive from 
it if possible, some information as to the moral state of its occupant. 
She found in it no trace either of frenzy or despair. The greatest 
cleanliness, and even a sort of order, reigned throughout all its details. 
There was a cloak together with a change of garments hanging on 
the horns of the auroch — curiosities which Albert had brought home 
with him from the interior of Lithuania, and which here answered the 
purpose of clothes-hooks. His numerous books were all arranged on 
shelves of unplaned timber, supported by rustic branches, artistically 
interwoven by an intelligent haiid. The table and two chairs were 
of the same mateiial and workmanship. An herbal and some books 
of old music, unknown entirely to Consuelo, with titles in the Scla- 
vonic tongue, completed the evidences of the calm and peaceful life 
led by the studious anchorite. An iron lamp, curious only from its 
antiquity, hung from the roof, burning with a clear light in the eter- 
nal gloom of that mournful sanctuary. 

Consuelo further remarked that there was nothing like a weapon in 
the place. For, notwithstanding the taste of the magnates of that 
land for the chase, and the objects of luxury which accompany it, Al- 
bert possessed neither gun nor knife; and his old dog had never 
learned the grand science, on which account Cynabre had ever been 


CONSUELO. 


198 

an object of contempt and pity to the Baron Frederick. Albert had 
a perfect horror of bloodshed, atid, although be appeared to enjoy life 
less than any other person, he possessed a leligions and unlimited re- 
spect for the idea of life in general. He conhrneither himself inflict 
death, nor look upon its infliction, even on the lowest animals of cre- 
ation. He would have loved all natural sciences, but he had stopped 
short at botany and mineralogy. Entomology seemed even too cruel a 
science for his prosecution, for he could not endure to sacrifice even 
an insect to his curiosity. 

Consuelo was aware of these peculiarities, and she recalled them 
all to mind as she looked on the various atti ibutes of Albert’s inno- 
cent pursuits. “ No, I will not be fearful,” she said to herself, “ of a 
being so gentle and pacific. This is rather the cell of a saint than the 
dungeon of a madman.” But the more she argued with herself on 
the nature of his mental malady, the more she felt embarrassed and 
agitated. She half regretted that she had not found him ill or de- 
ranged, and the very certainty that she was about to visit an actual 
man made her but hesitate the more. 

She mused for a few moments, undecided how she should announce 
herself, when the sound of an admirable instrument fell upon her 
ear. It was a stradiai ius, uttering an air of grand and mournful sub- 
limity, under the touch of a pure and scientific baud. Never had 
Consuelo heard so perfect a violin, never an amateur whose style was 
so simple yet so touching. The music was unknown to her, but she 
judged from its singular and artless character that it was older than 
the oldest music she had ever heard. She listened in ecstacy, and 
now understood how it was that Albert had so perfectly compre- 
hended her on hearing her sing one single passage. It was that lie 
had himself the revelation of true and grand music. He might not 
be thoroughly scientific at all points— he might not possess all the 
dazzling resources of the art, but he had in him the divine inspiration, 
the intelligence and love of the beautiful. When he had ended, Con- 
suelo was entirely reassured, and animated by a more lively sympathy, 
was on the point of knocking at the door which alone separated them, 
when it opened slowly, and the young count made his appearance, 
with his head bent forward, his eyes lowered, and his violin and bow 
hanging from his nerveless hands. His^ pallor was alarming, liis 
clothes were in disorder, such as Consuelo had never seen before. 
His abstracted air, his sad and depressed carriage, the despairing 
carelessness of his movements, announced, if not total (leraugement, 
at least the last disorder and abandonment of human will and enm-gy. 
He might have been taken for one of those dumb and senseless phan- 
toms in whom the Sclavonic races believe, who are seen at night to 
enter houses mechanically and to perform actions without end or ob- 
ject, obeying, as if by instinct, the habits of their past life, without 
recognising or even seeing their terrified friends or servants, who 
either fly from them or gaze at them in silence, frozen by fear and as- 
tonishment. 

Such w'as Constielo as she beheld Count Albert, and perceiving that 
he beheld her not, although she was within two paces of him. Cyua- 
bre had arisen from his bed, and was licking the hand of his master, 
who spoke to him kindly in the Bohemian tongue; then following the 
dog with his eyes, as he proceeded to ofier his quiet caresses to Con- 
suelo, still without lifting his head, he looked attentively at her feet, 
which were covered at this moment by shoes something like those of 


CONSUELO. 


(199 

Zdenko, and then spoke some more Bohemian words, which she did 
not understand, but which appeared to be an interrogation, and which 
terminated with her own name. 

Seeing him in this state, Oonsuelo felt all her timidity vanish. Ab- 
sorbed now pitirely in compassion, she saw only the heart-sick invalid, 
y/ho called for her, yet failed to recognise her when present; and, lay- 
ing her hand firmly and confidently on the young man’s shoulder, said 
to him in Spanish, in her pure and thrilling tones, ‘‘Oonsuelo is 
here.” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

Scarcely had Oonsuelo mentioned her name, before Count Albert 
raising his eyes and looking her full in the face, altered his attitude 
and expression altogether. He let fall his precious violin on the 
ground, as recklessly as though he knew not the use of it, and clasp- 
ing his hands together with an air of the deepest tenderness, and most 
respectful grief, “ It is thou, then, whom 1 see at length in this place 
of suffering and exile^ O my unhappy Wanda!” he exclaimed, utter- 
ing a sigh which seemed to rend his heart asunder. “ Dear, dear, un- 
happy sister! unfortunate victim, whom I avenged too late, and whom 
I failed to defend ! Ah ! thou knowest, then, that the wretch who out- 
raged thee perished in tortures, and that my hand was bathed ruth- 
lessly in the blood of his accomplices. I opened, the deepest vein of 
the accursed church, 1 washed away thy affront and my own, and that 
of my people, in rivers of gore — what wouldst thou more, unquiet 
and vindictive spirit? The time of zeal and wrath hath passed away, 
the time of penitence and expiation is at hand. Ask from me tears 
and prayers, but ask for no more blood. Oh ! I am henceforth sick 
of blood. I will shed none of it — no, not a drop! John Ziska will 
no longer fill his chalice save with tears inexhaustible and sighs of 
bitterness.” 

As he spoke thus, with bewildered eyes, and features animated by 
sudden enthusiasm, Albert moved around Oonsuelo, and recoiled from 
her in a sort of horror, at every movement she made to stop his fan- 
tastical adjuration. 

Oonsuelo had no need of long reflection to comprehend the turn 
which his insanity had now taken. She had heard the liistory of 
John Ziska often enough to know that the sister of that formidable 
fanatic, being a nun before the outbreak of the Hussite war, had been 
outraged by an atrocious monk, and that the whole life of Ziska had 
been but one act of long and solemn vengeance for that crime. At 
this moment Albert, drawn back by I know not what transition of 
ideas, to his prevailing mania, believed himself John Ziska, and was 
addressing her as the shade of his unhappy sister Wanda. 

She resolved not to contradict him too suddenly in his illusion, but 
said to him gently, “Albert, for thy name is no longer John, as mine 
is no longer Wanda, look at me steadfastly, and see tliat I am changed 
in character and countenance even as thou art. I come to remind 
thee of that, of which thou hast but now reminded me. Human 
fustice is more than satisfied, and it is the day of heavenly justice 


200 


CONSUELO. 


which I now announce to thee. God commands us to pardon and 
forget; these fatal recollections, this pertinacious resolution to exer- 
cise in thy person faculties which lie grants not to other men, this 
fierce and perilous memory which thou dost retain of thy past exis- 
tences, God now withdraws from tliee, oflended, because thou hast 
abused them. Dost thou hear me, Albert, and dost thou now com- 
prehend me? 

“ Oh ! my mother,” cried Albert, pale and trembling, falling on his 
knees and gazing at Consuelo with extraordinary dismay, “ I hear 
you, and comprehend your words. I see that you have transformed 
yourself, in order to convince and subdue me. No: you are no longer 
the Wanda of Ziska, the outraged virgin, the weeping nun. You are 
the Wanda of Parachalitz, whom men have named the Countess of 
Kudolstadt, and who didst bear the wretch whom men now call Al- 
bert.” 

“ It is not by the caprice of men that you are so called,” replied 
Consuelo, fervently, “ for it is God who caused you to live again, under 
new circumstances, and with new duties. These duties you know 
not, Albert, or if you do know, you despise them. You reascend the 
ladder of ages with an unholy pride ; you aspire to pry into the secrets 
of destiny ; you think to equal yourself to a God, embracing at a glairce 
the present and the past. This is the truth. It is I who tell it to you. 
It is faitli which inspires me to do so. This retrogiessive thought is 
impious — it is a crime, a madness. This supernatural memory which 
you afiect is an illusion. You have mistaken vague and fugitive 
gleams for a certain light, and your own imagination has made a 
mockery of you. Your own pride has built an edifice of chimeras, 
when you attribute to yourself the great deeds of your heroic ances- 
try. Beware that you become not that which you believe yourself to 
be. Fear, lest to punish you. Eternal Wisdom open not your eyes for 
one instant, and sutfer you to behold in your own past life crimes less 
illustrious and subjects of remorse less glorious than those of which 
you dare to boast yourself.” 

Albert listened to this harangue with a sort of timid self-restraint, 
his face buried in his hands, and his knees pressed hard upon the 
ground. 

“ Speak— speak ! ” he cried, “O voice of heaven which I hear, yet 
fail to recognise,” he murmured in half-smothered accents. “If you 
be the angel of this mountain, if you be, as I believe you are, the ap- 
parition which has appeared to me so often on the Stone of Terror, 
speak, command my will, my conscience, my imagination. You will 
know that I seek for the light with anguish ; and, if 1 lose my way in 
the darkness, it is through the earnestness with which I strive to dis- 
■ sipate that darkness, in order to meet you.” 

A little liumility, a little confidence and submission to the decrees 
of that wisdom which is incomprehensible to men, these are for you, 
Albert, the road to truth. Ilenounce in your soul, renounce firmly, 
once, and that forever, the desire of knowing yourself beyond the ex- 
istence of this transitory life which is imposed on you, and you will 
again become acceptable to God, useful to other men, and at peace 
with yourself. Descend from your haughty science, and without los- 
ing faith in your immortality, without doubting the divine goodness 
. which pardons the past and protects the future, attach yourself to 
V the attempt of rendering humane and pleasant this present lile 

\ which you despise, when you ought rather to respect it, and to devote 


CONSUELO. 


201 


to it entire yourself, with all your energy, your self-denial and your 
charity. Now, Albert, look at me, and let your eyes be unsealed. I 
am neither your mother nor your sister, I am a friend sent to you by 
heaven, and led hither by miraculous ways to reconduct you from the 
regions of pride and insanity. Look at me, and tell me, in your 
heart, and on your conscience, who am I? ” 

Albert, trembling and embarrassed, raised his head, and looked at 
her once more, but with less wildness and alarm than before. You 
compel me to cross abysses,” he said. You confound my reason by 
the depth of your words, which I believed superior to my misfortune 
to that of all other men, and you command me to comprehend the 
present time and the things of humanity. I cannot do it. In order 
to lose the memory of certain phases of my life, I must undergo ter- 
rible crises; and in order to discover the sentiment of a new phase, I 
must transform myself by efforts which lead me to agony. If you 
command me by virtue of a power which I feel superior to my own, 
to assimilate my thoughts to yours, I must obey; but I know the ter- 
ror of these struggles, and I know that death is at the end of them. 
Have pity on me, you who govern me with a sovereign spell, aid me 
or I fall. Tell me who you are, for I know you not. 1 remember 
having seen you, I know not of what use you are, yet here you stand 
before me like some mysterious statue, the type of which I vainly 
seek in my recollections. Help me ! help me ! or I feel that I die.” 

As he spoke thus, Albert’s face, which had at first been flushed with 
a feverish return of animation, again became fearfully pale. He 
stretched his hands out for a moment towards Consuelo, and then 
lowered them to the ground, as if to save himself from falling under a 
weakness which he could not resist. Consuelo, who began by degrees 
to comprehend the nature of his mental malady, felt herself animated 
with renewed strength, and inspired as it were by a novel intelligence 
and power. She took his hands, gently compelled him to arise, and led 
him to a seat beside the table. He let himself sink upon it, overpow- 
ered by ineffable weariness, and bowed forward as if he were on the 
point of fainting. The strife of which he spoke was but too real. Al- 
bert had the faculty of recovering his reason atid banishing the sug- 
gestions of that delirium which suffused his brain ; but he only suc- 
ceeded in doing so, through efforts which exhausted all his powers. 
When this reaction occurred spontaneously, he found himself refresh- 
ed, and as it were renewed. But when he brought it on by a resolu- 
tion of his own will, his body failed under the crisis, and all his limbs 
were seized with catalepsy. Consuelo understood what was passing 
within him. “ Albert,” said she, laying her cold hand on his burning 
head, “ I know you, and that suffices. I take an interest in you, and 
that ought to satisfy you for the present. I forbid you to make aiiy 
effort to recognise or speak to me at present; listen to me only, and 
do not even exert yourself too much to understand me, I only ask of 
you passive submission and a total abandonment of all reflection. 
Can you not descend into your heart, and there concentrate the whole 
of your existence.” 

“ Oh ! how much good you do me,” exclaimed Albert. “ Speak to 
me yet again — speak to me ever thus. You hold my soul in your 
hands. Whoever you be, keep it; suffer it not to escape, or it will go 
knock at the gates of eternity, and there will perish. “ Tell me, who 
are you? Tell me quickly; and if I understand not, explain to me; 
f »r, in my own despite, I seek and am agitated.” 


C O N S U E L O, 


\ 


202 


“ I am Consuelo,” replied the young girl; “ and you know it, since 
you converse with me instinctively in a language which I alone of all 
your friends can understand. I am the friend whom you have long 
expected, and whom you recognised that day when I was singing. 
From that day, you forsook your family and concealed yourself here, 
and you summoned me hither several times by means of Zdenko; 
while Zdenko, thoiigh to a certain degree he obeyed your commands, 
would not conduct me hither. I have come, however, through a 
thousand dangers.” 

“ You could not have come if Zdenko had not permitted you,” re- 
plied Albert, raising his body, which had rested heavily and faintly on 
the table. “ You are a dream, I perceive it clearly, and what 1 hear 
you say, is the mere effect of my own imagination. Oh ! my God ! 
you excite me with false joys, and on a sudden the disorder and incd- 
herency of my dreams reveal themselves, even to myself, and I find 
myself alone — alone in the world — with my despair and my madness. 
Oh! Consuelo, Consuelo! — fatal, yet delicious dream! — where is the 
being who assumes your name, and sometimes wears your likeness? 
No! save in myself, you have no existence; and it is my delirium 
only which gave you birth.” 

Albert sank down again on his extended arms, which became as 
cold and stiff as marble. Consuelo saw that he was fast falling into 
his lethargic crisis, and at the same time felt herself so much ex- 
hausted, and so near to fainting, that she doubted her power to con- 
quer the crisis. She strove, however, to revivify the hands of Albert 
between her own, which were, in truth, hardly more living than her 
patient’s. “Heaven !” she said, in a faltering voice, and with a bro- 
ken spirit, “ aid two unhappy beings who lack the power to assist one 
another!” She felt herself alone, shut up with a half-dying man, 
half dead herself, and with no hope of assistance for either, unless it 
were from Zdenko, whose return she looked for with far more of 
alarm than hope. 

Her prayer, however, appeared to strike Albert with an unexpected 
emotion. “ Some one,” said he, endeavoring to raise his bewildered 
head, “some one is praying near me. 1 am not alone,” he added, 
looking at Consuelo’s hand, which he held firmly grasped between his 
own. “Oh! aiding hand— mysterious pity— human, fraternal sym- 
pathy — you render my agony less agonizing — you fill my heart with 
gratitude.” And he pressed his icy lips on the hand of Consuelo, and 
remained long in that attitude. 

An emotion of modesty recalled Consuelo to the consciousness of 
life. She dared not withdraw her hand from the poor wretch ; but 
divided between her embarrassment and her exhaustion, unable to 
hold herself any longer erect, she was forced to lean upon him, and 
to rest her other hand upon Albert’s shoulder. 

“ I feel myself revived,” cried Albert, after a few moments had 
elapsed. “1 fancy that I am in the arms of my mother. Gh*! my 
aunt, Wenceslawa. if this be you, pardon me that I have forgotten 
you — you, and my father, and all my family, whose very names had 
fallen from my memory. I return to you ; leave me not, but restore 
to me Consuelo, Consuelo — her whom I so long awaited — her whom I 
found at last, only to love again ; for without her I cannot breathe.” 

Consuelo would have spoken to him; hut in pi-oportion as Albert’s 
memory and life seemed to return, in like porportion did Consuelo’s 
seem to fail her. Such a succession of fears, fatigues, emotions, 


C O N S U E L O. 


203 


efforts, almost superhuman, had broken her down so that she could 
struggle against them no longer. The words died on her lips, she 
felt her knees give way under her, and her eyes lose their vision. She 
dropped on her knees by Albert’s side, and her fainting head fell heav- 
ly against the young man’s bosom. Then Albert, starting as if from 
a dream, saw her, recognised her, uttered a loud cry, ainh recovering 
himself, caught her energetically in his arms. Through the veils of 
death which appeared to be closing over her eyelids, Consuelo beheld 
the joy which beamed from all his features, and was not alarmed by 
it; for it was a chaste and holy joy. She closed her eyes and fell into 
that state of languid unconsciousness which is neither sleep nor wak- 
ing, but a sort of indifference and insensibility to all things present. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

So soon as she recovered the use of her faculties, before she was 
yet able to lift her eyelids, finding herself seated on a hard bed, she 
endeavored to collect her memories. But her prostration had been 
so complete that her powers returned to her but slowly, and, as if the 
sum of the fatigues and emotions which she had endured for so long a 
time had completely overpowered her, she sought in vain to remember 
what had befallen her since leaving Venice. Her very departure from 
that adopted country, in which her days had flowed away so softly, 
appeared to her a dream ; and it was a consolation to her— though, alas 1 
too short — to be able to doubt for an instant her exile and the misfor- 
tunes which had led to it. She peysuaded herself, then, that she was 
still in her poor chamber in the Corte Minelli, on her mother’s pallet, 
and that, after a violent and bitter scene with Anzoleto, some confused 
memory of which floated through her spirit, she was recovering life 
and hope, finding him by her side, hearing his interrupted breath, and 
the sweet words which lie whispered in her ear. A languid and de- 
licious joy filled her heart at the idea, and she made an effort to rise 
and look at her repentant lover, and offer him her hand. But the hand 
which she encountered was a cold and strange one; and in lieu of 
the smiling sun which she was wont to see shining redly through her 
white curtains, she saw only a sepulchral light, streaming downward 
from a dark vault, and floating through a damp and misty atmosphere ; 
she felt the skin of some wild beast stretched out beneath her, and, 
in the midst of an appalling trance, she saw the pale face of Albert 
leaning over her like a spectre. 

Consuelo believed that she had gone down alive into the tomb, and 
fell back on the bed of dry leaves with a groan of horroi-. It re- 
quired yet that several minutes should pass before she understood where 
she indeed was, and to the care of how fearful a host she was en- 
trusted. Fear, which up to this moment the enthusiasm of her de- 
votediiess had combatted and conquered, took possession of her to 
such a degree, that she was afraid to open her eyes, lest they should 
meet some hideous spectacle — the preparations of a death-bed, or a 
grave open before her. She felt something upon her brow, and raised 
her hand to it. It was a wreath of foliage witli which Albert had 
crowned her; she took it off and looked at it, it was a cypress 
wreath. 


204 


CONSUELO 


^‘I thought thee dead! — O, my soul! — O, my Consolation!” said 
Albert, kneeling beside her, “ and I wished before following thee to 
the grave to adorn thee with the symbols of hymeneals. The dark cy- 
presses were the only branches from which my hand could pluck the bri- 
dal wreath. Behold it! Refuse it not! If we must die here, let me 
swear to thee that, restored to life, never could I have any bride but 
thee, and that I die with thee, united to thee by an indissoluble 
oath ! ” 

“Affianced! united!” exclaimed Consuelo, in terror. “Who is it, 
then, that has pronounced this decree? Who, then, has celebrated 
these hymeneals? ” 

“ It is destiny, my angel,” replied Albert, with inexpressible sweet- 
ness and melancholy. “Dream not that you can escape from it. It 
is a strange destiny for thee — a stranger yet for me. You compre- 
hend me not, Consuelo, and yet you must learn the truth. You for- 
bade me but now to look back into the past; you interdicted to me 
the memory of those by-gone days, which are called the night of 
ages. My whole being obeyed you, and I know no more of my ante- 
rior existences; but my present life I have interrogated — I know it — 
I have it all before me in one eye-glance; it appeared before me in- 
stantaneously, while you appeared to be reposing in the arms of 
death. Your destiny, Consuelo, is to belong to me, and yet you will 
never be mine. You love me not; you will never love me as I love 
you. Your love for me is only charity, and the devotedness of hero- 
ism. You are a saint whom God has sent to me, and to me you will 
never be a woman. I must die consumed by a love which you can- 
not partake; and yet, Consuelo, you will be my bride, as you are now 
my betrothed, whether we perish here, and your pity consent to give 
me that title of husband, which no kiss will ever ratify; or w'hether 
we revisit the sun, and thy conscience compel you to accomplish the 
designs of God toward me.” 

“ Count Albert,” said Consuelo, endeavoring to arise from that bed, 
covered with a black bear-skin, which resembled a pall; “ I know not 
whether it is the enthusiasm of a gratiude far too lively for its object, 
or the consequences of your delirium, which lead you to speak thus. 
I have no longer the power to combat your illusions, and if they are 
now to be turned against me — against me, who have come at the risk 
of my life to succor and console you— I feel that it is not in my power 
to dispute with you, either my liberty or my life. If the sight of me 
irritate you, and God forsake me, let the will of God be clone! You, 
who think you know so much, must know how iny life is poisoned, 
ami with how little regret I should surrender it.” 

“ I know that you are miserable, iny poor saint! I know that you 
wear on your brow a crown of thorns, which I cannot tear from it. 
The cause and the consequence of thy misfortunes, I know not, and 
I ask them not. But I should love tiiee much less, and I should be 
much less worthy of thy compassion, if on the day when I first met 
thee, I had not perceived the sadness which fills thy soul and steeps 
thy life in bitterness. What can you fear from me, Consuelo? You 
who are so firm and prudent; you to whom God has inspired words 
which subjugated me and conquered me in an instant. You must feel 
a strange falling off in the light of your reason and your faith, since 
you so dread your friend, your servant, and your slave? Return to 
me, my angel— look at me. Behold me at your feet, for I am even 
prostrate in the dust. What sacrifice do you require of me ? What 


CONSUELO, 


205 


oath must I offer you? 1 can promise to obey yon in all things. Yes, 
Consuelo, I could become a self-controlled man, submissive, and to all 
appearance as reasonable as other men. Hitherto I have never had 
the power to do that which I desire to do ; but henceforth all that 
thou wouldst of me shall be granted. Perhaps I may die in the act 
of transforming myself in accordance to yonr desii-e, but it is my part 
to tell you that my life would always have been poisoned, and that I 
should not regret it so long as I lost it for you.” 

“ Generous and noble Albert,” said Consuelo, “ explain yourself 
more clearly, and let me understand the depths of your impenetrable 
spirit. In my eyes you are the greatest of men, and from the first 
day of my beholding you, I conceived a respect for you, which I had 
no cause to dissemble. I was always told that you are mad — I always 
disbelieved it. All that was said to me of you, added to my esteem 
for you. Still I was compelled to admit, that you were overpowered 
by a deep and fantastical moral disease. I persuaded myself, pre- 
sumptuously perhaps, but sincerely, that I could assuage this disease. 
You led me yourself to believe so. I came to seek you out, and now 
you speak to me in a manner that would fill me with conviction, re- 
spect, and veneration for you and for myself, to a degree for which I 
cannot account, if you did not mingle with your arguments strange 
ideas, intermingled with a spirit of fatalism, of which I never could 
be a partaker. May I say all that I w'ould say, without wounding 
your feelings? ” 

“ Speak what you will, Consuelo ; I know beforehand all that you 
would say to me,” replied Albert. 

“ I will speak, then, for I had promised myself so to do. All those 
who love you, despair of you. It is their duty, they imagine, to re- 
spect — or, in other words, to deceive your delirium. They are afraid 
of exasperating you, by suffering you to perceive that they are aware 
of it — that they pity it, and fear it. I have no such terrors, nor have 
I the least hesitation in asking you — ‘ Wherefore, being so wise, you 
act at times like a madman? wherefore, being so good, you commit 
acts of ingratitude and pride? wherefore, being so enlightened and so 
religious, you abandon yourself to the reveries of a diseased and de- 
spairing spirit? wherefore, in conclusion, I find you here buried in a 
melancholy cavern, afar from your family, which seeks you and de- 
plores your absence ; afar from your equals, who love you with ardent 
affection; afar from me, last of all, whom you summon, and whom 
you say that you love, and who has found you by a miraculous exer- 
tion of will, and by divine protection? ’ ” 

“ You ask me the secret of my life, the key-word of my destiny, and 
you know it better than I do myself. Consuelo, it is from you that I 
expected the revelation of my existence, and you question me of it. 
Oh! I understand you; you desire to lead me to confession, to an effi- 
cacious repentance, to a victorious resolution. You shall be obeyed. 
But it is not now that I can recognise myself, judge myself, transform 
myself, at a moment’s notice. Give me a few days, give me at least a 
few hours to learn myself, and thereafter to teach you, whether I am 
indeed a madman, or whether I enjoy my reason. Alas! alas! both 
are true, and it is my misfortune that I doubt it. But to ascertain 
whether I must entirely lose my judgment and my reason, or whether 
I can triumph over the demon which besets me— this is what I cannot 
make out at this instant. Have pity on me, Consuelo ; I am still over- 
powered by emotions too strong for my control. I am ignorant what 


206 


CONSUELO. 


I have said to you; I know not how many hours have elapsed since 
you have been here; I know not how you can be here at all without 
Zdenko, wdio would not bring you hither; I know not where my 
thoughts were wandering when you entered! Alas! I know not how 
many centuries I have been shut up here, struggling with unheard of 
sufferings, against the plague which devours me. Of these sufferings 
themselves, I have no consciousness when they are once overpast; I 
only feel the fatigue which remains after thenj ; a stupor and a sort of 
terror, which I strive in vain to banish. Consuelo, suffer me to for- 
get, if it be but for a few minutes. My ideas will become more lumi- 
nous, my tongue will be relaxed. I promise you, I swear it to you. 
Give me only by degrees this light of reality, which has been so long 
closed against me by hideous darkness, and which my eyes cannot, as 
yet, endure. You have commanded me to concentrate my whole life 
in my heart. I remember that you told me that, for from thai instant 
date my memory and my reason. Well! that one word has poured an 
angelic calmness into my bosom. My lieart now lies entire and un- 
wounded, although my reason slumbers yet. I could still bewilder 
myself, and terrify you by my reveries. I will henceforth live only in 
my feelings, which to me will be a life unknown; but it will be a life 
of delight, if I could but abandon myself to it without displeasing 
you. Ah! Consuelo, wherefore did you command me to concentrate 
my whole life within my heart: explain yourself. Suffer me to have 
no object in life save yourself only. To occupy myself with you 
alone — to see, to comprehend you only — in one word, to love you. 
Oh, Heaven ! I love — I love a being similar to myself; I love with all 
the power of my existence; I lavish on her all the ardor, all the sin- 
cerity, all the sanctity of my affection. It is surely happiness enough 
for me to be allowed this, and I will ask no more.” 

“ Be it so, dear Albert. Repose your diseased spirit in that sweet 
sentiment of peaceable fraternal tenderness. God is my witness that 
you may do so without fear or danger, for I feel toward you a fervent 
iriendsliip, and a sort of veneration which no frivolous conversations 
or vain reasonings have power to shake. You have understood by 
some mysterious and strange instinct, that my life also is broken by 
sorrow. You said so, and it is truth from on high, that must have in- 
spired you with the knowledge. I could not love you otherwise than 
as a brotlier; yet, say not that it is charity or pity only which is my 
guide. If humanity and compassion gave me the courage to come 
liither, a sympathy, nay a particular esteem for your virtues, give me 
also the courage and the right to speak to you as I do. Abjure, then, 
now and forever, the illusion under which you labor concerning the 
nature of the sentiment you feel toward me. Speak to me of love no 
more, nor of marriage. My past years, my memories, would render 
that impossible, and the difference of our conditions. If you return 
to such ideas, you will render my devotion to you rash, perhaps im- 
proper. Let us seal this engagement which I now make, to be your 
sister, your friend, your consoler, by a sacred oath. Swear to me that 
you will never look for aught else in me, and that you will never love 
me otherwise.” 

“ Generous woman,” said Albert, growing pale, “you reckon much 
on my courage, and much on my love, when you ask such a pledge of 
me. I might be base enough to speak falsely, nay, to swear falsely, 
should you require it of me. But you will not require it, Consuelo. 
You will perceive that this were but to agitate me anew. Be not 


C O N S U E L O. 


207 


uneasy, therefore, as to how I love you ; I scarcely know that myself; 
only t feel that to withdraw the name of love from the sentiment 
which I feel were blasphemy. I accept your pity, your care, your sis- 
terhood, your passionless and peaceful attentions. I will not have so 
much as one expression of the face or a glance of the eye, that should 
offend you. Be at ease, thei'efore, my sister, and my consoler. I 
swear to be your brother, and your servant. But ask no more of me. 
I will be neither importunate, nor indiscreet. It will suffice me that 
you know you may command me, and govern me despotically, not as 
a biother is governed, but as a being who is given up to you, wholly 
and for ever.’' 


CHAPTER XLV. 

For the moment Consuelo was satisfied with this language, though 
it did not leave her without much apprehension for the future. The 
almost fanatical self-denial of Albert, evidently had its source in a 
deep and real passion, of the truth of which his serious countenance 
and solemn speech left no possible doubt. Consuelo, though deeply 
touched, was greatly disturbed, and asked herself secretly how she 
could devote herself to the care of a man so deeply and unreservedly 
attached to herself. She had never thought lightly of such relations, 
and she saw at a glance that Albert was not a man with whom any 
woman could incur them without the risk of perilous consequences. 
She did not doubt either his good faith, or his plighted word, but she 
saw that the calmness to which she had hoped to restore him, was not 
compatible with ties of this nature. She offered him her hand with 
a sigh, but she continued for a few moments in deep thought; at last 
she said, raising her eyes from the ground, “ Albert, you do not know 
me when you ask me to undertake such a charge. No woman could 
undertake it, but one capable of abusing it. I am neither proud, nor • 
a coquette, and I do not believe myself to be vain ; but I have no de- 
sire for domination. Your love would flatter me, could I return it, 
and if it were so I would tell you forthwith. To afflict you, in your 
present condition by reiterated assurances to the contrary is an act 
of cold-blooded cruelty which you ought to spare me, and which is, 
nevertheless, forced upon me against my will. Pity me, then, for be- 
ing forced to distress you, perhaps to offend you, and at a moment 
when I would give up my own life to restore you to health and to 
happiness.” 

“ I know it, high-souled maiden,” said Albert; with a melancholy 
smile. “You are so good, so great, that you would give your life for 
the meanest creature; but I know that your conscience will bend to 
no one. Do not then fear to offend me in displaying this sternness 
which I admire — this stoical coldness, which your virtue maintains 
along with the most moving pity. It is not in your power to afflict 
me, Consuelo. I am not the sport of illusion ; I am accustomed to 
bitter grief; my life has been made up of painful sacrifices. Do not 
then treat me as a visionary, as a being without heart, and without 
self-respect, in repeating what I already know, that you will never 
love me. Consuelo, I am acquainted with the circumstances of your 


208 


C O N S U E L O. 


life, although I know neither your name, nor family, nor any impor- 
tant fact concerning you. I know the history of your soul ; the rest 
does not concern me. You loved, you still love, and you will always 
love, one of whom I know nothing, whom I do not wish to know, 
and with whom I shall never compete. But know, Consuelo, that 
you shall never be his, or mine, or even your own. God has reserved 
for you a separate existence, of which the events are hidden from me, 
but of which I foresee the object and end. The slave and victim of 
your own greatness of soul, you will never receive in this life, other 
recompense than the consciousness of your own power and goodness. 
Unhappy in the world’s estimation, you will yet be the most serene 
and thd most fortunate of human creatures, because you will ever be the 
best and the most upright; for the wicked and the base, dearest sister, 
are alone to be pitied, and the words of Christ will remain true as 
long as men continue blind and unjust: — ‘Happy are those who are 
persecuted ; happy those who weep, and who labor in trouble.’ ” 

The power and dignity which were at this moment stamped upon 
the lofty and majestic forehead of Albert, exercised over Consuelo so 
great a fascination that she forgot the part of proud sovereign and 
austere friend, which she had imposed upon herself, to bow to the 
spell of this man’s influence, so inspired by faith and enthusiasm. 
She supported herself with difficulty, still overwhelmed with fatigue 
and emotion, and trembling from excess of weariness, she sank on 
her knees, and clasping her hands, began to pray fervently and aloud : 
“ If thou, my God,” she exclaimed, dost put this prophecy in the 
mouth of a saint, thy holy will be done! In my infancy I besought 
from thee an innocent and childlike happiness; but thou hast 
reserved for me happiness under a severe and rude form, which I am 
unable to comprehend. Open thou mine eyes — grant tne au humble 
and contrite heart. I am willing, oh, my God, to submit to this des- 
stiny, which seems so adverse, and which so slowly revealed itself, and 
only ask from thee that whicli any of thy creatures is entitled to ex-' 
pect from thy loving justice, faith, hope, and charity.” 

While praying thus, Consuelo was bathed in tears, which she did 
• not seek to restrain. After such feverish agitation, this paroxysm 
served to calm her troubled feelings, while it weakened her yet more. 
Albert prayed and wept along with her, blessing the tears which he 
had so long shed in solitude, and which now mingled with those of a 
pure and generous being. 

“ And now,” said Consuelo, rising, “ we have thought long enough 
of what concerns ourselves; it is time to think of others, and to recol- 
lect our duties to them. I liave promised to restore you to your fam- 
ily, who already mourn and pray for you as for one dead. Do you not 
desire, my dear Albert, to restore joy and peace to your afflicted rela- 
tives? Will you not follow me? ” 

“So soon!” exclaimed the young count in despair; “separate so 
soon, and leave this sacred asylum, where God alone is with us — this 
cell, which I cherish still more since you have appeared to me in it — 
this sanctuary of a happiness which I shall perhaps never again ex- 
perience — to return to the false and cold world of prejudices and cus- 
toms. Ah ! not yet, my soul, my life! Suffer me to enjoy yet a day, 
yet an age of delight. Let me here forget that there exists a world 
full of deceit and sorrow, which pursues me like a dark and troubled 
dream; permit me to return by slow degrees to what men call reason. 
1 do not yet feel strong enough to bear the light of their sun, and the 


CONSUELO. 


209 


spectacle of their madness. I require to gaze upon your face and 
listen to your voice yet longer. Besides, I have never left my retreat 
from a sudden impulse, or without long reflection — my endeared, yet 
frightful retreat, this terrific yet salutary place of expiation, whither 
I am accustomed to hasten as with a wild joy, without once looking 
back, and which I leave with doubts but too well founded, and with 
lasting regret. You know not, Consuelo, what powerful ties attach 
me to this voluntary prison — you know not that there is here a second 
self, the true Albert, who will not leave it — a self which I ever find 
when I return, and yet which besets me like a spectre wdien I leave 
it. Here I have conscience, faith, light, strength — in a word, life. In 
the world there are fear, madness, despair — passions which sometimes 
invade my peaceful seclusion, and engage with me in a deadly strug- 
gle. But behold ! behind this door there is an asylum where I can 
subdue them and become myself again. I enter sullied with tbeir 
contact, and giddy from their presence— I issue purified, and no one 
knows what tortures purchase this patience and submission. Force 
me not hence, Consuelo, but suffer me gradually and by prayer to wean 
my attachment from tiie place.” 

“ Let us then enter and pray together,” said Consuelo; “ we shall 
set out immediately afterwards. Time flies; the dawn is perhaps 
already near. They must remain ignorant of the path which leads 
to the castle, tliey must not see us enter together; for I am anxious 
not to betray the secret of your retreat, and hitherto no one suspects 
my discovery. I do not wish to be questioned, or to resort to false- 
lioods. I must be able to keep a respectful silence before your rela- 
tives, and suffer them to believe that my promises were but presen- 
timents and dreams. Should I be seen to return with you, my 
absence would seem disobedience; and although, Albert, I would 
brave everything for you, I would not rashly alienate the confidence 
and afiection of your family. Let us hasten then ; I am exhausted 
with fatigue, and if I remain here much longer I shall lose all my re- 
maining Wength, so necessary for this new journey. We shall pray 
and then depart.” 

“Exhausted, say you? Repose here, then, beloved one. I will 
guard you religiously, or if my presence disturbs you, you shall shut 
me up in the adiacent grotto; close this iron door between us, and 
whilst, sunk in slumber, you forget me, 1 shall, until recalled by you, 
pray for you in my church^ 

“ But reflect that while you are praying and sunk in repose, your 
father suffers long hours of agony, pale and motionless as I once saw 
him, bowed down with age and grief, pressing with feeble knees the 
floor of his oratory, and apparently only awaiting the news of your 
death to resign his last breath. And your poor aunt’s anxiety will 
throw her into a fever, incessantly ascending, as she does, the highest 
towers of the castle, vainly endeavoring to trace the paths to the 
mountain, by one of which it is supposed you departed. This very 
morning the members of your family, when they assemble together 
in the chateau, will sorrowfully accost each other with fruitless in- 
quiries and conjectures, and again separate at night with despair and 
anguish in their hearts. Albert, you do not love your relatives, other- 
wise you would not thus, without pity or remorse, permit them to 
suffer and languish.” 

“Consuelo! Consuelo!” exclaimed Albert, as if awaking from a 
dream, “ do not speak to me thus; your words torture me. What 


CONSUELO. 


210 




cringe have I committed ?— what disasters have I caused ?— Why are 
my friends thus afflicted? How many hours have passed since I left 
them ? ” 

“ You ask how many hours ! Ask rather how many days— how 
many nights — nay, how many weeks ! ” 

“ Days!— nights! Hush! Consuelo, do not reveal to me the full 
extent of my misfortune. I was aware that I here lost correct ideas 
of time, and that the remembrance of what was passing on the earth 
did not descend with me into this tomb; but I did not think that the 
duration of this unconsciousness could be measured by days and 
weeks.’’ 

“ Is it not, my friend, a voluntary obliviousness? Nothing in this 
place recalls the days which pass away and begin again : eternal dark- 
ness here prolongs the night. You have not even a glass to reckon 
the hours. Is not this precaution to exclude all means of measuring 
time, a wild expedient to escape the cries of nature and the voice of 
conscience ? ” 

“I confess that when I come here, I feel it requisite to adjure every- 
thing merely human. But O God! I did not know that grief and 
meditation could so far absorb my soul as to make long hours appear 
like days, or days to pass away as hours. What arn I, and why have 
they never informed me of this sad change in my mental organiza- 
tion ? ” 

“ This misfortune is, on the contrary, a proof of great intellectual 
power, but diverted from its proper use. and given up to gloomy rev- 
erie. They try to hide from you the evils of which you are the cause. 
They respect your sufferings whilst they conceal their own. But in 
my opinion it was treating you with>little esteem; it was doubting the 
goodness of your heart. But Albert I do not doubt you, 1 conceal 
nothing from you.” 

“ Let us go, Consuelo. let us go,” said Albert, quickly throwing his 
cloak over his shoulders. I am a wretch ! I have afflicted my fa- 
ther whom I adore, ray aunt whom I dearly love. I am unworthy to 
behold them again. Ah! rather than again be guilty of so much 
cruelty, I would impose upon myself the sacrifice of never revisiting 
this retreat. But, no: once more I am happy, for I have found a 
friend in you, Consuelo, to direct my wandering thoughts and restore 
me to my former self. Some one has at length told me the truth, and 
will always tell it to me. Is it not so, my dear sister?” 

“ Always, Albert; I swear to you that you shall ever hear the truth 
from me.” 

“ Power divine ! and the being who comes to ray aid is she to whom 
alone I can listen — whom alone I can believe. The ways of God are 
known but to himself. Ignorant of my own mental alienation, I 
have always blamed the madness of others. Alas, Consuelo ! had my 
noble father himself told me of that which you have Just disposed, I 
would not have believed him. But you are life and truth ; you can 
bring conviction, and give to ray troubled soul that heavenly peace 
which emanates from yourself.” 

“ Let us depart,” said Consuelo, assisting him to fasten his cloak, 
which his trembling hand could not arrange upon his shoulders. 

“ Yes, let us go,” said he, gazing tenderly ui)on her as she fulfilled 
this friendly office; “ but first swe'ar to rae,“ Consuelo, that if I return 
hither you will not abandon me, swear that you will come to seek me, 
were it only to overwhelm me with reproaches— to call me ingrate, 


CONSUELO. 


211 

parricide — and to tell me that I am unworthy of your solicitude. 
Oh I leave me not a prey to myself now that you see the influence 
you have over my actions, and that a word from your lips persuades 
and heals, where a century of meditation and prayer would fail.” 

“ And will you, on your part,” replied Consuelo, leaning on his 
shoulder, and smiling expressively, “ swear never to return hither with- 
out me ? ” 

“Will y6u indeed return with me!” he rapturously exclaimed, look- 
ing earnestly in her face, but not daring to clasp her in his arms ; 
“ only swear this to me, and I will pledge myself by a solemn oath never 
to leave my hither’s roof without your command or permission.” 

“ May God liear and receive our mutual promise ! ” ejaculated Con- 
suelo, transported with joy. “We will come back to pray in your 
church ; and you, Albert, will teach me to pray, as no one has taught 
me hitherto; for I have an ardent desire to know God. You, my 
friend, will reveal heaven to me, and I when requisite will recall your 
thoughts to terrestrial things and the duties of human life.” 

“Divine sister! ” exclaimed Albert, his eyes swimming in tears of 
delight, “ I have nothing to teach you. It is you who must be the 
agent in my regeneration. It is from you I shall learn all things, even 
prayer. I no longer require solitude to raise ray soul to God. I no 
longer need to prostrate myself over the ashes of my fathers, to com- 
prehend and feel my own immortality. To look on you is sufficient to 
raise my soul to heaven in gratitude and praise.” 

Consuelo drew him away, she herself opening and closing the doors, 
“ Here, Cynabre ! ” cried Albert to his faithful hound, giving him a 
lantern of better construction than that with which Consuelo was fur- 
nished, and better suited to the journey they were about to undertake. 
The intelligent animal seized the lamp with an appearance of pride 
and satisfaction, and preceded them at a measured pace, stopping when 
his master stopped, increasing or slackening his speed as he did, and 
sagaciously keeping the middle of the path, in order to preserve his pre- 
cious-charge from injury by contact with the rocks or brushwood. 

Consuelo walked with great difficulty, and would have fallen 
twenty times but for Albert’s arm, which every moment supported 
and raised her up. They once more descended together the course 
of the stream, keeping along its fresh and verdant margin. 

“Zdenko,” said Albert, “delights in tending the Naiad of these 
mysterious grottoes. He smooths her bed when encumbered as it 
often is with gravel and shells; he fosters the pale flowers which 
spring up beneath her footsteps, and protects them against her kisses, 
which are sometimes rather rude.” 

Consuelo looked upwards at the sky through the clefts of the rock, 
and saw a star glimmer in its blue vault. “ That,” said Albert, “ is 
Aldebaron, the star of the Zingari. The day will not dawn for an 
hour yet.” 

“That is my star,” replied Consuelo, “for I am, my dear Count, 
though not by race, by calling, a kind of Zingara. My mother bore no 
other name at Venice, though in accordance with her Spanish pre- 
judices, she disclaimed the degrading appellation. As for myself I am 
still known in that country by the name of the Zingarella’^ 

“Are you indeed one of that persecuted race,” replied Albert; “if 
so, I should love you yet more than I do, were that possible.” 

Consuelo, who had thought it right to recall Count Eudolstadt to 
the disparity of their birth and condition, recollected what Amelia 


C O N S U E L O, 


212 

had said of Albert’s sympathy for the wandering poor, and, fearing lest 
she had involuntarily yielded to an instinctive feeling of coquetry, she 
kept silence. 

But Albert thus interrupted it in a few moments: 

“ What you have just told me,” said he, “awakens in me, I know 
not by what association of ideas, a recollection of my youth, childish 
enough it is true, but which I must relate to you: for since I have 
seen you, it has again and again recurred to my memory. Lean 
more on me, dear sister, whilst I repeat it.” 

“ I was about fifteen, when, returning late one evening by one of 
the paths which border on the Schreckenstein, and which wind 
through the hills in the direction of the castle, I saw before me a tall 
thin woman, miserably clad, who carried a burthen on her shoulders, 
and who paused occasionally to seat herself, and to recover breath. 
1 accosted her. She was beautiful, though embrowned by the sun 
and withered by misery and care. Still there was in her bearing, 
mean as was her attire, a sort of pride and dignity, mingled, it is true, 
with an air of melancholy. When she held out her hand to me, she 
rather commanded pity than implored it. My purse was empty. I 
entreated her to accompany me to the castle, where she could have 
help, food, and shelter for the night. 

“ ‘ I would prefer remaining here,’ replied she, with a foreign accent 
which I conceived to be that of the wandering Egyptians, for I was 
not at that time acquainted with the various languages which I after- 
wards learned in ray travels. ‘ I could pay you,’ she added, ‘ for the 
liospitality you offer, by singing songs of the different countries which 
I have traversed. I rarely, ask alms unless conipelled to do so by ex- 
treme distress.’ 

“ ‘ Poor creature ! ’ said I, ‘ you bear a very heavy burden ; your 
feet are wounded and almost naked. Entrust your bundle to me; I 
will carry it to my abode, and you will thus be able to walk with more 
ease.’ 

“ ‘ This burden daily becomes heavier,’ she replied, with a melan- 
choly smile, which imparted a charm to her features, ‘ but I do not 
complain of it. I have borne it without repining for years, and over 
hundreds of leagues. I never trust it to any one. besides myself; but 
you appear so good and so innocent, that I shall lend it to you until 
we reach your home.’ 

“ She then unloosed the clasp of her mantle, which entirely covered 
her, the handle of her guitar alone being visible. This movement 
discovered to me a child of five or six years old, pale and weather- 
beaten like its mother, but with a countenance so sweet and calm 
that it filled my heart with tenderness. It was a little girl, quite in 
tatters, lean, but hale and strong, and who slept tranquilly as a slum- 
bering cherub on the bruised "and wearied back of the wandering 
songstress. I took her in my arms, but had some trouble in keeping 
her there: for, waking up and finding herself with a stranger, she 
struggled and wept. Her mother, to soothe her, spoke to her in her 
own language; my caresses and attentions comforted her, and on ar- 
riving at the castle we were the best friends in the world. When the 
poor woman had supped, she put her infant in a bed which I had 
IM-epared, attired herself in a strange dress, sadder still than her rags, 
and came into the hall, where she sang Spanish, French, and German 
ballads, with a clearness and delicacy of voice, a firmness of intona- 
tion united to a frankness and absence of reserve in her manner, 


CONSUELO. 


213 

which charmed us all. My good aunt paid her every attention, which 
the Zingara appeared to feel ; but she did not lay aside her pride, and 
only gave evasive answers to our questions. The child interested me 
T even more than its mother; and I earnestly wished to see her again, 
to amuse her, and even to keep her altogether. I know not what 
tender solicitude awoke in my bosom for this little being, poor, and a 
wanderer on the earth. I dreamt of her all night long, and in the 
morning I ran to see her. But already the Zingara had departed, and 
I traversed the whole mountain around without being able to discover 
her. She had risen before the dawn, and, with her child, had taken 
the way towards the south, carrying with her my guitar, which I had 
made her a present of, her own, to her great sorrow, being broken.” 

“Albert! Albert!” exclaimed Consuelo, with extraordinary emo- 
tion ; “ that guitar is at Venice with Master Porpora, who keeps it for 
me, and from w'hom I shall reclaim it, never to part w'ith it again. 
It is of ebony, with a cipher chased on silver — a cipher which I well 
remember, ‘ A. R.’ My mother, whose memory was defective, from 
having seen so many things, neither remembered your name nor that 
of your castle, nor even tlie country where this adventure had hap- 
pened ; but she often spoke of. the hospitality she had received from 
the owner of the guitar, of the touching charity of the young and 
handsome signor, who had carried me in his arms for half a league, 
chatting with her the while as with an equal. Oh, my dear Albert, 
all that is fresh in my memory also. At each word of your recital, 
these long-slumbering images were awakened one by one; and this is 
the reason wdiy your mountains did not appear absolutely unknown 
to me, and why I endeavored in vain to discover the cause of these 
confused recollections w'hich forced themselves upon me during my 
journey, and especially why, when I first saw you, my lieart palpi- 
tated, and my head bowed down respectfully, as if I had just found a 
friend and protector, long lost and regretted.” 

“ Do you think, then, Consuelo,” said Albert, pressing her to his 
heart, “that I did not recognise you at the first glance? In vain 
have years changed and improved the lineaments of childhood. I 
have a memory wonderfully retentive, though often confused and 
dreamy, which needs not the aid of sight or speech to traverse the 
space of days and of ages. I did not know that you w'ere my cher- 
ished Zingarella, but I felt assured I had already known you, loved 
you, and pressed you to my heart — a heart which, although unwit- 
tingly, was from that instant bound to yours for ever.” 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

Thus conversing, they arrived at the point where the two paths 
divided, and where Consuelo had met Zdenko. They perceived at a 
distance the light of his lantern which was placed on the ground be- 
side him. CoHsuelo having learned by experience the dangerous 
whims, and almost incredible strength of the idiot, involuntarily 
pressed close to Albert, on perceiving the indication of. his approach. 

“Why do you fear this mild and afiectionate creature?” said the 
young count, surprised, yet secretly gratified at her terror. “Poor 


214 


CONSUELO, 


Zdenko loves you, although since yesternight a frightful dream has 
made him refractory and rather hostile to your generous project of 
coming to seek me. But he is, when I desire it, as submissive as a 
child, and you shall see him at your feet if 1 but say the word.” 

“ Do not humiliate him before me,” replied Consuelo; “ do not in- 
crease the aversion which he already entertains for me. I shall by- 
and-by inform you of the serious reasons I have to fear and avoid him 
for the future.” 

“ Zdenko,” replied Albert, “ is surely an ethereal being, and it is 
difficult to conceive how he could inspire any one whatever with fear. 
His state of perpetual ecstacy confers on him the purity and charity 
of angels.” 

“ But this state of ecstacy when it is prolonged becomes a disease. 
Do not deceive yourself on this point. God does not wish that man 
should thus abjure the feeling and consciousness of his real life, to ele- 
vate himself— often by vague conceptions — to an ideal world. Mad- 
ness, the general result of these hallucinations, is a punishment for 
his pride and indolence.” 

Cynabre stopped when he saw Zdenko, and looked at him with an 
affectionate eye, expecting the customary caress, which his friend now 
withheld from him. His head was buried in his hands as it had been 
when Consuelo left him. Albert spoke to him in Bohemian, but he 
scarcely made any reply. His cheeks were bathed in tears, and he 
would not so much as look at Consuelo. But Albert raised his voice, 
and spoke to him firmly ; but there was still more of exhortation than 
of anger in his tones. He rose and offered her his hand, which she 
took, though not without trembling. 

“ Now,” he said to her in German, looking at her mildly, although 
sadly, “ you ought to fear me no longer ; but you have done me great 
injury, and I feel that your hand is full of misfortune to me.” 

He walked on before, now and then exchanging a word with Albert. 
They followed the solidly-built and spacious gallery, which hitherto 
Consuelo had not yet traversed, which led them to a round, vaulted 
hall, in which they again encountered the water of the spring, flowing 
into a large basin, made by the hand of man, and walled up with hewn 
stone. Two streams flowed from it, one losing itself in the ramifica- 
tions of the cavern, the other rushing towards the castle cistern. The 
latter of these Zdenko closed, placing in its channel three huge blocks 
of stone, when desired to lower the cistern to the level of the sluice- 
way, and of the stairway by which to gain Albert’s terrace. 

“ Let us sit down here awhile,” said Albert, to his companion, “ to 
give the water of the well time to run off by the waste-way ” 

“ Which I know but too well,” said Consuelo, shuddering from head 
to foot. 

“ What do you mean? ” asked Albert, in astonishment. 

“ I will tell you some other time,” said Consuelo. “ At this moment 
I do not wish to alarm and sadden you by the idea of the perils I have 
gone through.” 

“ What does she mean ? ” asked Albert of Zdenko, in astonishment. 

Zdenko replied in Bohemian, while he was kneading some clay 
wherewith to fill up the interstices of the blocks of stone. 

“Explain yourself, Consuelo,” said Albert, earnestly. “I cannot 
make out what he means. He says that he did not guide you hither, 
that you came through subterraneous passages, which I know to be 
impenetrable, and through which no delicate woman would or could 


C O N S U E L (). 


215 


attempt to pass. He says that destiny led you, and tliat the Arch- 
angel Michael, whom he calls the haughty and imperious, guided you 
through the waters, and across the abysses.” 

“ I dare say it was the Archangel Michael,” said Consuelo, with a 
smile, “ for it is very certain that I came by the waste-way of the 
fountain, and outstripped the torrent in its course. That I lost my 
way two or three times, passed caverns and quarries in which I ex- 
pected to be smothered or drowned at every step I took; and yet all 
these things were less terrible to me than the rage of Zdenko,'when 
chance or Providence brought me back to the true road.” 

And here Consuelo, who was still speaking Spanish to Albert, told 
him in a few words of the reception the pacific Zdenko had given her, 
and of his attempt to bury her alive, which he would unquestionably 
have accomplished had she not fortunately remembered the singu- 
larly heretical phrase by which to appease him. Cold sweat rolled 
down the face of Albert, and his eyes shot fiery glances of wrath 
against Zdenko, who returned them with defiance and disdain. Con- 
suelo trembled at the idea of a conflict between these two madmen, 
and tried to reconcile them by gentle words, but Albert rose, and giv- 
ing the keys of his hermitage to Zdenko, addressed him very coldly, 
when Zdenko instantly submitted, and went away, singing some of 
his wild and antique airs. 

“ Consuelo,” said Albert, as soon as he was gone, “ if this faithful 
animal now crouching at your feet, if poor Cynabre were by involun- 
tary rage to put your life in peril, he should die for it, and my hand, 
which has never shed the blood even of the lower animals, would not 
hesitate to slay him. Fear not, then ; no further peril shall assail 
you.” 

“Of what are you speaking, Albert? ” she cried, alarmed at this 
sudden illusion. “I fear nothing; Zdenko is still a man, if he have 
lost his reason — in part by his own’ fault, and in part it may be by 
yours. Speak not of blood or punishment; it is for you to lead him 
back to truth and reason. But come, let us go. I fear that the day 
may dawn, and that we may be seen as we re-enter the castle.” 

“ You are right, Consuelo,” said Albert, proceeding on his way. 
“ Wisdom speaks by thy mouth. My madness has been contagious to 
the poor wretch, and myself, cured by you, it is for me to cure him. 
But if I fail, although Zdenko be a man in the eyes of God, and an 
angel for his tenderness to me, although he be the only true friend on 
earthy^be sure that I will tear him from my heart, and that you shall 
never sec him more.” 

“ Hold ! Albert, hold ! ” cried Consuelo. “ Dwell not on such ideas. 
I would rather a hundred fold myself die, than force on you a neces- 
sity so terrible.” 

But Albert heard her not. He was again bewildered. And as he 
was no longer compelled to support her, he seemed to forget her very 
existence, and walked rapidly forward, making the cavern re-echo 
with his broken exclamations, and leaving her to drag herself as best 
she might, behind him. 

In this alarming situation Consuelo could think of nothing but 
Zdenko, who was behind, and might follow her, and of the torrent, 
which he might unchain at any moment, in which case she would 
perish miserably, deprived of Albert’s aid. For he was now the vic- 
tim of a new phantasy, and appeared to see her before him, and to be 
in pursuit of a fleeting phantom, while she was really behind him in 


216 


C O N S U E L O. 


the darkness. Cynabre, who carried the light, ran as swiftly as his 
master walked ; the light vanished behind the angles of the sinuous 
road, and at length, overcome with fatigue and terror, Consuelo stum- 
bled over a fragment of rock, fell, and could not rise again. 

“ It is all over! ” she thought within herself, after a vain effort to 
raise herself on her knees. “ I am a victim to a pitiless destiny, and 
never more shall look upon the light of heaven.” A thicker darkness 
than that of the cavern overspread her eyes. Her hands grew chill, 
an apathy like that of the last sleep overpowered her, when suddenly 
she was raised in a pair of strong arms, and pressed closely to a lov- 
ing breast, while a friendly voice addressed her with kind words. 
Cynabre bounded before her, shaking his lantern joyously, for it’was 
Albert, who had recovered his senses, and returned, just in time to res- 
cue her from certain death. In three minutes they reached the cistern, 
into which the water was already beginning to flow. Cynabre, accus- 
tomed to the way, rushed fleetly up the steps, as if he feared to be in 
the way of his master, while Albert, clinging to the chain with one 
hand while he upheld her with the other, ascended with wonderful 
speed. At any time his muscular strength was ten-fold that of Zden- 
ko, and now he was animated by an almost supernatural power. 
When he deposited his precious burthen on the margin of the well, 
the day was dawning. 

“ My friend,” said she tenderly, ‘‘ I was about to die when you saved 
me. You have returned all that I have done for you, but now I feel 
your fatigue more than you do yourself and I feel as if I should give 
way under it.” 

“Oh, my little Zingarella,” cried Albert, enthusiastically, “I feel 
your weight as little as on that day when I bore you, yet a child, down 
the steep descent of the Shreckenstein into the castle.” 

“ Whence you are never to issue more, without my pennission, Al- 
bert. Kemember your promise.” 

“ I will. Do you, likewise.” 

He then helped her to wrap herself in her veil, and led her through 
his room, whence she escaped to her own apartment unseen of any 
one, although the people were beginning to rise in the castle, and the 
dry morning cough of the canoness was heard from the lower story. 

Hastily she took off and concealed her garments, soiled and torn by 
her wild nocturnal adventures, for she had recovered strength enough 
to be aware of the necessity of secrecy. But no sooner had her head 
touched the pillow than a heavy and unrefreshing sleep fell oifher, 
and she remained as it were nailed to her pillow by the oppression of 
fiei-ce and fiery fever. 

/ 


CHAPTER XLYII. 

The Canoness Wenceslawa, after praying that morning about half 
au hour, went up-stairs, and walked straight to the door of her neph- 
ew’s chamber. She was charmed to hear some slight sounds from 
within, which served to announce his return. She entered softly, and 
what was her rapture to see Albert sleeping peacefully in his own bed, 
and Cynabre curled up in an arm chair. At once she ran down to 


C () N SU ELO. 


217 


* 


the oratory, where the old Count Christian was praying, as was his 
wont, that heaven would restore his son to him, either on earth or in 
heaven . 

“ Brother,” she cried kneeling by his side, “ suspend your prayers 
and raise your highest benedictions toward heaven. Your prayers 
are granted.” 

She had no need to utter another word. The old man understood 
her, raised his withered hand toward heaven, and cried in a faint 
voice, “ My God, you have restored my son to me ! ” 

And then both, as if by a sudden inspiration, began to recite alter- 
nately the verses of the beautiful canticle of Simeon, “ Lord, now 
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace ! ” 

Albert they determined not to awaken ; but the baron, the chap- 
lain, and all the servants were summoned, and listened devoutly to 
a mass of thanksgiving in the Castle chapel. Amelia alone greatly 
disapproved of being awakened at five o’clock in the morning, to 
yawn through a sleepy mass, though she was rejoiced at her cousin’s 
return. 

‘‘Why did not your good friend, Porporina, join us in returning 
thanks to Providence,” said Count Christian to his niece, when mass 
was over. 

“ I tried to waken her,” answered Amelia, “ but in vain. I called 
her, shook her, did all I could to arouse her, but in vain. I should 
have thought her dead, but she was as hot as fire, and her face was 
crimson. She must have slept ill, and is feverish.” 

“ The excellent young lady must be sick, then,” said Count Chris- 
tian, “ and, my dear sister, you ought to go and give her that care 
which her situation requires. I trust the happy day of our son’s re- 
turn will not be saddened by the illness of that noble girl.” 

“ I will go, brother,” replied the canoness, who never took a step or 
said a word in relation to Consuelo, without consulting the chaplain’s 
eye. “ But do not be alarmed, Christian. The signora Nina is very 
nervous, and will soon be well. Is it not, however, a very singular 
thing,” said she, aside to the chaplain, when she could do so unob- 
served, “ that this girl should have foretold Albert’s return so confi- 
dently and so surely. Perhaps we may have deceived ourselves about 
her, and she may be a sort of saint.” 

“ A saint would have come to mass, instead of having a fever at 
such a time,” said the chaplain, gravely. 

This judicious remark drew a sigh from the canoness; but she went 
to see Consuelo, and found her in a burning fever and heavy lethargic 
sleep. The chaplain was summoned, and declared that, should this 
condition last, she wmuld be very ill. The young baroness was next 
questioned as to whether her neighbor had passed a restless night. 

‘’ Far from it,” said Amelia, ‘‘ I never heard her move. I expected, 
after the predictions and strange tales with which she has been regal- 
ing us of late, to have heard the sabbat danced in her room; but 
whether the devil carried her far hence, or whether she deals with 
very clever imps I know not; she never stirred to my knowledge, for 
niv sleep was not once broken.” 

The chaplain thought these jests very wicked, and the canoness, 
whose good heart eVer countei-acted the errors of her judgment, 
thought them very much misplaced by the bedside of a sick compan- 
ion. She said nothing, however, attributing her niece’s spite to well- 
founded jealousy, and only asked the chaplain what medicine ought to 
be given to Porporina. 


218 


CONSUELO. 


He ordered a sedative, but, as her teeth were hard clenched it could 
not be administered, and this he pronounced a had sign. But in that 
house apathy was contagious, and he put off his judgment until after 
a future examination, saying “ If this state continues, we must think 
of sending for a physician; for I should not feel justified in undertak- 
ing a case Where the ailment is not moral. In the meantime I will 
pray for her, and it may be, to judge from her recent state of mind, 
that the aid of God will be most effective in her case.” 

A servant maid was left with Consuelo. The canoness went to 
prepare a dainty breakfast for Albert; Amelia put on a brilliant cos- 
tume to captivate him. Every one prepared some gratification for 
the young count, while no one thought of poor Consuelo, to whom 
his return was due. 

Albert soon awoke, and, instead of making useless efforts to re- 
member what had passed, as he usually did after his fits of delirium 
and visits to the cavern, he speedily remembered his love and the hap- 
piness which he had derived from Consuelo. He hastened to arise, 
dressed and perfumed himself, and hastened to throw himself into 
the arms of his father and his aunt, whose.joy was at its height when 
they observed that Albert was perfectly sensible, conscious of his long 
absence, and penitent for the uneasiness he had caused them. He 
begged their pardon earnestly, and promised to give them no cause 
for further annoyance. He saw their delight at his return to a per- 
ception of reality, but, at the same lime, he remarked that they per- 
sisted in flattering him as to his true position, and he felt humiliated 
at being treated as a child, when he knew himself again a man. 

When they sat down to table, in the midst of tlie caresses of his 
family and their tears of joy, he looked anxiously around for her who 
was become necessary to bis happiness and peace, so that his aunt, 
seeing him start at the opening of every door, thought it best to re- 
lieve his anxiety by stating that their young guest had slept badly, 
and wished to remain in bed part of the day. 

Albert well understood that his deliverer must naturally be much 
fatigued; nevertheless, fear was manifest in all his features at this 
news. 

“ But, aunt,” said he, at length, unable to control bis emotion, “ I 
think if Porpora's adopted 'daughter be seriously ill, we might be bet- 
ter employed than sitting here round the table, eating and drinking 
and chatting at our ease.” 

“ Don’t be alarmed, Albert,” said Amelia, blushing with spite, 

Nina is busy dreaming about you, and auguring your return, which 
she awaits in tranquil sleep, while we are joyously celebrating it 
here.” 

Albert turned pale with indignation, and replied wuth an angry 
glance — 

“ If any one here has slept while awaiting me, it is not the person 
wdio?n you have named that deserves thanks for it. The rosiness of 
your cheeks, fair cousin, shows that you have not lost a moment’s 
sleep in my absence, and therefore now require no rest. I thank you 
for it with all my heart, for it would have been very painful to me to 
beg your pardon with shame and penitence, as I have done of all the 
rest of the family.” 

“ Thanks for the exception,” answered Amelia, crimson with rage, 
** I will try always to deserve it, by keeping my watchings and anxieties 
for some one who will care for them — not turn them into jest.” 


CONSUELO. 


219 


This little altercation, which was no new affair between Albert and 
his betrothed, though it was unusually bitter, in despite of all Albert’s 
efforts to the contrary, threw some constraint and sadness over the 
rest of the morning. The canoness went several times to see her 
patient, whom she found still more feverish and more lethargic. 
Amelia, who regarded Albert’s anxiety as a personal insult, went to 
cry in her own room. The chaplain told the canoness that if the 
fever lasted until evening, they must send for a physician. Count 
Christian, who could not comprehend his son’s anxiety, and who 
thought him still in ill health, kept his son close to his side all the 
morning. But in spite of his efforts to soothe him by affectionate 
words, the old man could not hit upon a single topic by which he 
could awaken Albert’s sympathies, fearing to sound the depths of his 
mind, through a vague apprehension of being overcome in argument, 
which had always befallen him, whenever, wanting as he was both in 
eloquence and that logical art of special pleading which supplies the 
want of it, he had attempted to attack what he called the heresies of 
Albert, and to combat the vivid gleams which pierced through the 
gloom of his insane fits, with the feeble and modest arguments of a 
weak and narrow-minded, though sincere Catholic. And he even 
dreaded, lest by giving him the victory, he should but add to his pride 
and attachment in the wrong, and so do him injury rather than good. 
Their conversation was, therefore, broken, at least twenty times, by a 
sort of mutual alarm, and twenty times resumed with constraint on 
both sides, and, at last, sunk of itself into silence. The old count 
fell asleep in his own arm-chair, and Albert went to inquire after Con- 
suelo’s health, concerning whom he was the more alarmed, the more 
they endeavored to conceal from him her ailment. 

He passed two hours and upwards roaming about the corridors of 
the castle, lying in wait for the canoness or the chaplain, in hopes of 
gaining tidings from them. The chaplain persisted in answering him 
concisely and reservedly; the canoness put on a forced smile when 
she saw him, and affected to talk of other things, as if to lull him into 
a false security. But it was not long before Albert perceived that she 
was really uneasy, that her visits to Consuelo’s chamber became much 
more frequent, and that she did not hesitate about opening and shut- 
ting the doors constantly, as if the sleep, which they pretended to be 
so peaceful and necessary, was one which could not be interrupted by 
any noise or uproar. He took courage, therefore, to approach the 
room, to enter which he would almost have given his life. It had an 
antechamber, separated from the passage by two massive doors, in 
which there was no chink or cranny penetrable to the eye. So soon 
as she observed this attempt, the canoness bolted both these securely, 
and thereafter, visited her patient only through Amelia’s room, which 
was adjoining, and which she well knew Albert would not visit in 
order to seek tidings, save with the last reluctance. At length, seeing 
that he was growing angry, she resolved to deceive him; and, while 
asking pardon of the Lord in her heart, announced that the invalid 
was much better, and would come down to dinner with the family. 

Albert, in the meantime, returned to his father, anxiously awaiting 
the hour which should give him back happiness and Consuelo. 

But the bell rang in vain ; no Consuelo made her appearance, and the 
canoness, who seemed to become rapidly an adept in the art of false- 
liood, said that she had risen, but feeling herself still weak, had pre- 
ferred to take her dinner in her own room ; and she even carried the 


220 


CONSUELO, 


deceit so far as to send delicate dishes to her from the table. These 
stratagems at last convinced Albert, though he still felt an invincible 
presentiment of evil, and only preserved the appearance of calmness 
by the exertion of a powerful effort. 

In the evening, Wenceslawa again announced, with an air of satis- 
faction, that the Porporina was much better, that the feverish redness 
of her complexion had subsided, that her pulse was rather feeble 
than full, and that she would undoubtedly pass an excellent night. 

“And, wherefore,” muttered Albert to himself, “ am I frozen with 
terror, in spite of this favorable news? ” 

In truth, the good canoness, who, despite her leanness and deform- 
ity, had never been sick an hour in her life, understood nothing of the 
sickness of others. When she saw Consuelo’s flushed cheek alter to a 
pale bluish hue, her agitated blood become stagnant in her veins, and 
lier oppressed bosom cease to labor; she really believed that she was 
convalescent, and gave notice of the occurrence with childish gladness. 
But the chaplain, who knew a little more, saw at once that this ap- 
parent ease was but the precursor of a violent crisis. So soon as Al- 
bert had retired, he told the canoness that the moment had arrived 
when the jdiysician must be summoned. Unfortunately the town 
was distant, the night dark, the roads execrably bad, and Hans, the 
messenger, though zealous enough, as slow as the horse that carried 
him. The storm arose, the rain fell in torrents. The old horse, 
which carried the old servant, tripped a hundred times, and, at length, 
lost his way with his master, who took every hill for the Schrecken- 
stein, and every flash of lightning for the fiery flight of an evil spirit. 
It was broad day before he recovered his way, and it was late before 
the physician could be aroused, induced to dress himself, and proceed 
on his way. More than four-and-twenty hours'had been lost in de- 
termining and performing this. 

Meanwhile, Albert vainly endeavored to sleep. His evil auguries 
and the wild sounds of the distant storm, kept him awake all night 
long. He dared not go down stairs, fearing the offended dignity of 
his aunt, and her remarks on the impropriety of his visit to the 
chamber of two young ladies. He left his door open, however, and 
listened to the footsteps as they passed to and fro, on the lower floor. 
Hearing nothing of moment, he was compelled to be calm, and in 
obedience to Consuelo’s orders, he watched over his reason and his 
moral health, with firmness and patience. But, on a sudden, above 
the peals of thunder and the crashing of the timbers of the old cas- 
tle under the fury of the hurricane, a long and piercing cry reached 
his ear, like the thrust of a keen weapon. Albert, who had lain 
down on the bed in his clothes, with a full resolution of sleeping, 
sprang to his feet, rushed down stairs, and knocked at Consuelo’s 
door. All was again silence. No one replied or came to open the 
door. Albert almost fancied he had been dreaming, when another 
cry followed, yet wilder than the first. He hesitated no longer, ran 
round a gloomy corridor, arrived at Amelia’s door, and announced 
his name. He heard her bolt it from within, and her voice impe- 
riously commanded him to begone. Nevertheless, the cries and 
groans redoubled. It was the voice of Consuelo in the extremity of 
suffering. He even heard his own name uttered in tones of anguish 
by that adored mouth. He drove the door in furiously, making^ both 
lock and bolt fly, and casting Amelia, fV’ho, in a damask dressing- 
gown and lace cap, played the part of injured modesty, violently back 


CONSUELO. 221 

on the sofa, inished into Consuelo’s apartment, pale as a spectre, and 
with his hair bristling erect on his head. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

CoNSUELO, who was now violently delirious, was struggling furi- 
ously in the arms of the two strongest maid-servants in the house . 
Assailed, as is usually the case in all affections of the brain, by appall- 
ing terrors, the poor girl was endeavoring to escape from the visions 
which beset her. She could see only in the persons who were trying 
to restrain and reassure her, enemies and monsters. The chaplain, 
terror-stricken and expecting to see her fall at each moment, over- 
powered by the violence of her fit, could only pray for her, while she 
took him for Zdenko, building the wall against her in the cavern. 
The trembling canoness who was assisting the other women to hold 
her in bed, she took for the phantom of the two Wandas, the sisters 
of Ziska, and the mother of Albert, confronting her, one by one in 
the cavern, and accusing her of invading their demesnes. Her cries, 
her groans, her words, all incomprehensible to the bystanders, all re- 
lated to the events of -the past night. She heard the roar of the tor- 
rents, and moved her arms as if she would have swam. She shook 
her black hair, dishevelled from her shoulders, and thought she saw 
the foam-flakes fall from it. Ever she fancied Zdenko behind her, 
opening the sluice-gates, or before her, blocking her way with granite. 
She only spoke of water and of stones, and that with a pertinacity 
that led the chaplain to say — “ This is a very long and painful dream. 
I cannot conceive what has so rivetted her thoughts on that cistern. 
It is evidently the beginning of her fever, and her delirium refers to 
nothing else.” 

At the moment when Albert entered her chamber in dismay, Con- 
suelo, exhausted with the violence of her delirium, was uttering only 
inarticulate words and piercing cries. The power of her will, no 
longer resisted her terrors, as it had done when she encountered 
them, and the reaction which she now experienced was intensely 
horrible. She recovered her voice, however, by a sort of instinct pre- 
dominant over her delirium, and began to call Albert, with shrieks 
so wild and piercing, that the whole house rang. 

“ Here — I am here! ” he cried, rushing towards the bed. Consuelo 
heard him — recovered all her energies, and fancying that he was fly- 
ing from her, darted out of bed, escaping the hands of her attendants, 
with that rapidity of motion and muscular power, which fever often 
lends even to the weakest frames. She sprang into the middle of the 
room with dishevelled hair and bare feet, and her body covered only 
by a slight, and ruffled night-dress, looking almost like a spectre, just 
issued from the tomb. At the very moment when they were on the 
point of seizing her, she sprang with a light bound to the top of the 
harpsichord, and thence to the sill of the window, which she evi- 
dently took for the opening of the fatal cistern ; and calling again on 
the name of Albert through the wild and stormy night, would have cast 
herself out headlong, had not Albert, yet more active and far stronger 
than she, caught her in his arms, and carried her back to her bed. 


CONSUELO. 


222 

She did not recognise him, but she made no resistance and ceased to 
cry. He addressed her in Spanish, lavishing on her the tenderest 
names and epithets. She listened, but appeared neither to hear or 
see him: but suddenly ilsing on her knees in bed, she began to sing 
Handel’s Te Deum, which she had recently read and admired. Never 
had she looked more lovely than in that attitude of ecstasy, with her 
hair loosely flowing, her cheeks flushed with fever, and her eyes 
turned heavenward, and conscious of heaven only. The canoness 
was so much moved that she sank on her knees at the foot of the 
bed, and burst into tears; and the chaplain, unsympathetic as he was, 
bowed his head in religious veneration. As soon as she had ended 
her chant, she heaved a deep sigh, and exclaiming — “ I am saved,” 
fell backward, pale as marble, with her eyes wide open, but devoid of 
life or lustre, her lips ashy white, and her arms rigid. 

An instant of terror and silence followed the catastrophe. Amelia, 
who had watched this terrible scene motionless at the door of her 
own room, without daring to move a step, fell backward fainting. 
The canoness and the two women ran to succor her, while Consuelo 
lay cold and motionless on the arm of Albert, who had let fall his 
head upon her bosom, and seemed scarce more alive than she. The 
canoness had no sooner laid Amelia on the bed, than she returned to 
the door of Consuelo’s room. 

“ Well, Monsieur Chaplain ? ” she asked mournfully. 

“ Madam, it is death ! ” replied the chaplain in a deep voice, letting 
fall Consuelo’s arm, the pulse of which he had been questioning. 

“ No, it is not death,” cried Albert impetuously. “ I tell you it is 
not death. I have consulted her heart better than you have her 
pulse. It beats still; she breathes, she is alive. Oh! she will live. 
It is not thus, nor is it now that she is to pass away. Now is the mo- 
ment to act with energy. Now, Monsieur Chaplain, give me your 
medicine chest; I know" how to treat her, which you do not. Wretch 
that you are, obey me. You have done her no good. You might 
have prevented this fearful crisis; you have not done so. You hid 
her illness from me. You have all deceived me. Did you then wdsh 
to destroy her? Your cowardly prudence, your stupid apathy, have 
tied up both your tongue and your hands. Give me your medicine 
chest. I say, and let me act.” 

And as the chaplain still hesitated to give his medicines, which might 
easily, in the hands of one inexperienced, much more of one half-mad, 
be considered poisons, he snatched it violently out of his hands. 
Without paying any regard to his aunt’s observations, he chose out 
and weighed himself, the powerful sedatives, which could alone act in 
such a crisis. Albert was learned in many things, of which no qne 
believed that he knew anything. He had experimented upon himself 
at one period of his life, when he was himself attending to the dis- 
ordered functions of his own brain, and had studied the effect of the 
most potent anti-spasmodics. Prompt of judgment, bold and zealous, 
he administered a dose which the chaplain would not have ventured to 
recommend. With great gentleness he succeeded in opening her 
clenched teeth, and got her to swallow some drops of the efficacious 
medicine. At the end of an hour, during which he repeated the prac- 
tice several times, her breathing was free, her hands had recovered 
their warmth, and her features their elasticity. She neither saw nor 
heard anything as yet, but her lethargy had assumed the form of sleep 
and a pale color was returning to her lips. The physician arrived, and 


CONSUELO 


223 


seeing that the case was a serious one, declared that he had been 
called too late, and would answer for nothing. She ought to have been 
bled last night,” he said, “ but now the moment was not favorable. 
To bleed would bring back the crisis, and this would be embarrass- 
ing.” 

“ It will bring it back,” said Albert, “ and yet she must be bled.” 

The German physician, who was a heavy person, accustomed to be 
regarded as an oracle in his part of the country, where he had no 
rival or competitor, raised his bushy eyes, and looked frowningly to 
see who dared question his diction. 

“ I tell you she must be bled,” said Albert, authoritatively. “ The 
crisis will return with or without the bleeding.” 

“ Permit me,” said the doctor; “ that is less certain than you seem 
to think.” 

“ If the crisis do not return all is lost,” replied Albert, “ and you 
ought to know it. This lethargic state tends to congestion of the 
brain, paralysis, and death. It is your duty to possess yourself of the 
disease, to rekindle its intensity, and then combat it, and subdue it. 
What can you do beside here ? Prayers and fUneral ceremonies are 
not your duty. Bleed her, or I will do so myself.” 

The doctor knew well that Albert’s reasoning was just, but it was 
not his rule that a man so grave and important as he, should decide 
promptly. Moreover, our German had a habit of pretending perplex- 
ities, in order to come out of them triumphantly, as if by a sudden flash 
of genius, so as to lead persons to speak of him as a very great and 
skilful practitioner, without his equal, even in Vienna. 

When he found himself contradicted, therefore, and driven to the 
wall by Albert’s impatience — “ If you are a physician,” he replied, 
“ and if you have authority here, I do not see whiy I was called in, and 
1 shall go home.” 

“ If you don’t chose to decide while there is yet time, you may do 
so,” returned Albert. 

Doctor Wetzelius, who was desperately offended at being associated 
with an unknown brother of the profession, rose, and went into 
Amelia’s room, to attend to the nerves of that young person, who was 
urgently solicitous to see him, and to take leave of the canoness; but 
she insisted on his remaining. 

“ Alas ! my dear doctor,” said she, “ you cannot abandon us in such 
a situation. See what heavy responsibility weighs on us. My neph- 
ew has offended you, but you should not resist so seriously the hasti- 
ness of a young man who is so little master of himself.” 

“ Was that Count Albert?” asked the doctor, amazed. “I should 
never have recognised him, he is so much altered.” 

“Without doubt, the ten years which have elapsed since you saw 
him, have made a great change in him,” 

“ I thought him completely cured,” said the doctor, maliciously ; “ for 
I have not been sent for once since his return.” 

“Ah! my dear doctor, you are aware that Albert never willingly 
submitted to the decision of science.” 

“And now he appears to be a physician himself!” 

“ He has a slight knowledge of all sciences, but he carries into all his 
uncontrollable impatience. The frightful state in which he has just 
seen this young girl has agitated him terribly, otherwise you would 
have seen him more polite, more calm, and grateful to you for the care 
you bestowed on him in his infancy.” 


224 


C 0 N S U E L O, 


I think he requires care more than ever,” replied the doctor, who, 
in spite of liis respect for the Rudolstadt family, preferred afflicting tin*, 
cafioness by this harsh observation, to stooping from his professional 
position, and giving up the petty revenge of treating Albert as a mad- 
man. 

The canoness suffered the more from this cruelty, that the exasper- 
ation of the doctor might lead him to reveal the condition of her neph- 
ew, which she took such pains to conceal. She therefore laid aside her 
dignity for the moment to disarm this resentment, and deferentially 
inquired what he thought of the bleeding so much insisted on by Al- 
bert. 

“ I think it is absurd at present,” said the doctor, who wished to 
maintain the initiative, and allow the decision to come perfectly free 
from his respected lips. I shall wait an hour or two; and if the right 
moment should arrive sooner than I expect, I shall act: but in the 
present crisis, the- state of the pulse does not warrant me taking any 
decisive step.” 

“ Then you will remain with us? Bless you, excellent doctor! ” 

“ When I am now aware that my opponent is the young count,” 
replied the doctor, smiling with a patronising and compassionate air, 
“ I shall not be astonished at anything, and shall allow him to talk as 
he pleases.” 

And he was turning to re-enter Consuelo’s apartment, the door of 
which the chaplain had closed to prevent Albert hearing this collo- 
quy, when the chaplain himself, pale and bewildered, left the sick 
girl’s couch, and came to seek the physician. 

“ In the name of Heaven ! doctor!” he exclaimed, “ come and use 
your authority, for mine is despised, as tlie voice of God himself 
would be, I believe, by Count Albert. He persists in bleeding the 
dying girl, contrary to your express prohibition. I know not by what 
force or stratagem we shall prevent him. He will maim her, if he do 
not kill her on the spot, by some untimely blunder.” 

“ So, so,” inuttei-ed ihe doctor in a sulky tone, as he stalked leisure- 
ly towards the door, with the conceited and insulting air of a man 
devoid of natural feeling, “ we shall see fine doings if I fail in divert- 
ing his attention in some way.” 

But when they approached the bed, they found Albert with his 
reddened lancet between his teeth: with one hand he supported 
Consuelo’s arm, while with the other he held the basin. The vein 
was open, and dark-colored blood flowed in an abundant stream. 

The chaplain began to murmer, to exclaim, and to take Heaven to 
witness. The doctor endeavored to jest a little, to distract Albert’s 
thoughts, conceiving he might take his own time to close the vein, 
were it only to open it a moment after, that his caprice and vanity 
might thus enjoy all the credit of success. But Albert kei)t them all 
at a distance by a meie glance; and as soon as he had di-awn a suffi- 
cient quantity of blood, he applied the necessary bandages, with the 
dexterity of an experienced operator. He then gently replaced Con- 
suelo’s arm by her side, handing the canoness a'phial to liold to her 
nostrils, and called the chaplain and the doctor into Amelia's cham- 
ber. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ you can now be of no further use. Inde- 
cision and prejudice united, paralyze your zeal and your knowledge. I 
here declare that I take all the responsibility on myself, and that I will 
not be either opposed or molested in so serious a task. I beg there- 


C O N S U E L O. 


225 

fore that the chaplain may recite his prayers and the doctor adminis- 
ter his potions to my cousin. I shall suffer no prognostics, nor sen- 
tences of death around the bed of one who will soon regain her con- 
sciousness. Let this be settled. If in this instance I offend a learned 
ii^an — if I am guilty of culpable conduct towards a friend — I shall ask 
pardon wl)en 1 can once more think of myself.” 

After having thus spoken in a tone, tlie serious and studied polite- 
ness of which was in strong contrast with the coldness and formality 
of his words, Albert re-entered Consuelo’s apartment, closed the door, 
.put the key in his pocket, and said to the canoness: “ No one shall 
either enter or leave this room without my permission.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

The terrified canoness dared not venture a word in reply. There 
w^as something so resolute in Albert’s air and demeanor that his good 
aunt quailed before it, and obeyed him with an alacrity quite surpris- 
ing in her. The physician finding his authority despised, and not car- 
ing, as he afterwards affirmed, to encounter a madman, wisely deter- 
^ mined to withdraw. The chaplain betook himself to his prayers, and 
Albert, assisted by his aunt and two of the domestics, remained the 
whole day with his patient, without relaxing his attentions for an in- 
stant. After some hours of quiet the paroxysm returned with an inten- 
sity almost greater than that of the preceding night. It was however 
of shorter duration, and then it yielded to the effect of powerful reme- 
dies. Albert desired the canoness to retire to rest, and to send him 
another female domestic to assist him while the two others took some 
repose. 

“Will you not also take some rest?” asked Wenceslawa, trem- 
bling. 

“No, my dear aunt,” he replied, “ I require none.” 

“ Alas ! my child,” said she, “ you will kill yourself, then ; ” and she 
added as she left the room, emboldened by the abstraction of the 
count, “ This stranger costs us dear.” 

He consented however to take some food, in order to keep up his 
strength. He . ate standing in the corridor, his eye fixed upon the 
door; and as soon as he had finished his hasty repast, he threw' down 
the napkin, and re-entered the room. He had closed the communi- 
cation between the chamber of Consuelo and that of Amelia, and 
only allowed the attendants to gain access by the gallery. Amelia 
wished to be admitted to tend her suffering companion; but she went 
so awkwardly about it, and, dreading the return of convulsions, dis- 
played such terror at every feverish movement, that Albert became 
irritated, and begged her not to trouble herself further, but retire to 
her own apartment. 

“ To my apartment ! ” exclaimed Amelia ; “ impossible ! — do you 
imagine I could sleep with those frightful cries of agony ringing in my 
ears ? ” 

Albert shrugged his shoulders, and replied that there were many 
other apartments in the castle, of which she might select the best, 
14 


226 


C O N S U E L O, 


until the invalid could be removed to one where her proximity should 
annoy no one. 

Amelia, irritated and displeased, followed the advice. To witness 
the delicate care which Albert displayed towards her rival was moie 
painful than all. “ O, aunt!” she exclaimed, throwing hei-self into 
the arms of the canoness, when the latter had brought her to sleep 
in her own bedroom, where she liad a bed prepared for her beside her 
own, “ we did not know Albert. He now shovys how he can love.” 

For many days Consuelo hovered between life and death; but Al- 
bert combated her malady with such perseverance and skill as finally . 
to conquer it. He bore her through this rude trial in safety; and as 
soon as she was out of danger, he caused her to be i-emoved to an 
apartment in the turret of the castle, where the sun shone for the 
longest time, and wheie the view was more extensive and varied than 
from any of the other windows. This chamber, fuiinshed after an 
antique fashion, was more in unison with the serious tastes of Consu- 
elo than the one they had first prepared for her, and she had long 
evinced a desire to occupy it. Here she was free from the importuni- 
ties of her companion, and in spite of the ctintinual presence of a 
nui'se, who was engaged each morning and evening, she could enjoy 
the hours of convalescence agreeably wdth her preserver. They al- 
ways convet“sed in Spanisli, and the tender and delicate manifestation 
of Albert’s love was so much the sweeter to Consuelo in that lan- 
guage which recalled her country, her childhood, and her mother. # 
Imbued with the liveliest gratitude, weakened by sufferings in which 
Albert alone had effectively aided and consoled her, she submitted to 
that gentle lassitude which is the result of severe indisposition. Her 
recollections of the past returned by degrees, but not with equal dis- 
tinctness. For example, if she recalled with undisguised satisfaction 
the support and devotion of Albert, during the principal events of 
their acquaintance, she saw his mental estrangement, and his some- 
what gloomy passion, as through a thick cloud. There were even 
lioui-s, during the half consciousness of sleep, or after composing 
draughts, when she imagined that she had dreamecl many of the 
things that could give cause for distrust or fear of her generous friend. 
She w'as so much .accustomed to his presence and his attentions, that 
if he absented himself at prayers or at meals, she felt nervous and .ag- 
itated until his return. She fancied that her medicines, when pre- 
pared and administered by any other hand than his, had an effect the 
contrai-y of that which was intended. She would then observe wdth 
a tr.anqnil smile, so affecting on a lovely countenance half veiled by 
the shadow of death : “ I now believe, Albert, that you are an en- 
chanter; for if you order but a single drop of water, it produces in 
me the same salutary calmness and strength which exists in your- 
self.” 

Albert was happy for the first time in his life; and as if his soul was 
strong in joy as it had been in grief, he deemed himself, at this period 
of intoxicating delight, the most fortunate man on earth. Tliis cham- 
ber where lie constantly saw his beloved one had become his world. 

At night, .after he was supposed to have retired, and every one was 
thought asleep in the liouse, he returned with stealthy steps; and 
while the nui-se in charge slept soundly, he glided behind the bed of 
his dear Consuelo, and watched her sleeping, pale and drooping like a 
flower after the storm. He settled himself in an arm-chair, wliich 
he took care to leave there when he went away, and thus passed the 


C O N S U E L O. 


227 

night, sleeping so lightly that at the least moveraen of Consiielo, he 
awoke and bent towards her to catch her faint words; or his ready 
hand received hers when a prey to some unhappy dream, she was 
restless and disquieted. If the nurse chanced to awake, Albert de- 
clared he had just come in, and she rested satisfied that he merely 
visited his patient once or twice during the night, while in reality he 
did not waste half an hour in his own chamber. Consuelo shared 
this feeling, and although discovering the presence of her guardian 
much more frequently than that of the nurse, she was still so weak as 
to be easily deceived both as to the number and duration of his visits. 
Often when, after midnight, she found him watching over her, and be- 
sought him to retire and take a few hours repose, he would evade her 
desire by saying that it was now near daybreak, and that he had just 
risen. These innocent deceptions excited no suspicion in the mind 
of Consuelo of the fatigue to which her lover was subjecting himself; 
and to them it was owing that she seldom suffered from the absence 
of Albert. This fatigue, strange as it may appear, was unperceived by 
the young count himself: so true is it that love imparts strength to 
the weakest. He possessed, however, a powerful organization: and 
he was animated besides by a love as ardent and devoted as ever fired 
a human breast. 

When, during the first warm rays of the sun, Consuelo was able to 
bear removal to the half-open window, Albert seated himself*behind 
hei, and sought in the course of the clouds and in the purple tints of 
the sunbeams, to divine the thoughts with which the aspect of the 
skies inspired his silent friend. Sometimes he silently took a corner 
of the veil with which she covered her head, and which a warm wind 
floated over the back of the sofa, and bending forward his forehead as 
if to rest, pressed it to his lips. One day Consuelo, drawing it for- 
ward to cover her chest, was surprised to find it warm and moist; 
and turning more quickly than she had done since her illness, per- 
ceived some extraordinary emotion on the countenance of her friend. 
His cheeks were flushed, a feverish fire shone in his eyes, while his 
breast heaved with violent palpitations. Albert quickly recovered 
himself, but not before he had perceived terror depicted on the coun- 
tenance of Consuelo. This deeply afflicted him. He would rather 
have witnessed there an emotion of contempt, or even of severity, 
than a lingering feeling of fear and distrust. He resolved to keep so 
careful a w’atch over himself, that no trace of his aberration of mind 
should be visible to her who had cured him of it, almost at the price 
of her own life. 

He succeeded, thanks to a superhuman power, and one which no 
ordinary man could have exercised. Accustomed to repress his emo- 
tions. and to enjoy the full scope of his desires, when not incapaci- 
tated by his mysterious disease, he restrained himself to an extent 
that he did not get credit for. His friends were ignorant of the fre- 
quency and force of the attack which he had every day to overcome, 
until overwhelmed by despair, he fled to his secret cavern — a con- 
queror even in defeat, since he still maintained sufficient circumspec- 
tion to hide from all eyes the spectacle of his fall. Albert’s madness 
was of the most unhappy yet elevated stamp. He knew his madness 
and felt its approach until it had completely laid hold of and over- 
powered him. Yet he preserved in the midst of his attacks the 
vague and confused remembrance of an external world, in which he 
did not wish to reappear, whilst he felt his relations with it not per- 


CONSUELO. 


228 

fectly established. This tiieraory of an actual and real life we all re- 
tain, when, in the dreams of a painful sleep, we are transported into 
another life— a life of fiction and indefinable visions. We occasion- 
ally struggle against those fantasies and terrors of the night, assuring 
ourselves' that they are merely the effects of nightmare, and making 
efforts to awake ; but on such occasions a hostile power appears to 
seize upon us at every effort, and to plunge us again into a horrible 
lethargy, where terrible spectacles, ever growing more gloomy, close 
around us, and where griefs the most poignant assail and torture us. 

It was in a strange series of alternations that the powerful yet mis- 
erable existence of this singular man, whom nothing but an active, 
delicate and intelligent tenderness could rescue from his own suffer- 
ings, was spent. Consuelo had in reality the candid and innocent 
soul which seemed particularly adapted for the management of his 
dark spirit, which had hitherto been closed against any possible ap- 
proach of sympathy. There was something especially soft and touch- 
ing in the romantic enthusiasm of her first solicitude for Albert, as 
well as in the respectful friendship with which subsequent gratitude 
inspired her, that really appeared intended by a special Providence for 
the care of Albert. It is very probable that, if forgetful of the past, 
Consuelo could have returned the ardor of his passion ; transports so 
new to his experience, and a joy so sudden, would have excited him 
fatally. But her calm and discreet friendship had a far surer and 
more beneficial effect on him. It was a restraint, while it was a bless- 
ing; and if he enjoyed the pleasure of being loved as he never had 
been loved before, he was yet grieved at not being loved as he desired 
to be loved ; and he had a secret fear of losing even that which he now 
possessed, should he appear to be dissatisfied with it. The effect of 
this triple love was to leave no room in his mind any longer for the 
indulgence of those fatal reveries to which his lonely and inactive life 
had naturally led him. He was delivered from these as if by the force 
of enchantment, for he forgot them altogether, and the image of her 
whom he loved, kept them aloof like a heavenly buckler out^stretched 
between them and him. Like the fabulous hero of antiquity, Consue- 
lo had descended into Tartarus to rescue her friend, and had brought 
back thence bewilderment and terror. In his turn, it became his duty 
to deliver her from the hateful guests who had followed her, and he 
had succeeded in doing so by delicate attentions and respectful cares. 
They thus were recommencing as it were a new life altogether, rest- 
ing for support, one on the other, scarcely daring to look backward, 
and lacking the courage to revisit, even in thought, the abyss which 
they had traversed. The future was a new abyss, not less mysterious 
and terrible, which they did not venture to fathom. But they calmly 
enjoyed the present, like a season of grace which was granted them 
by Heaven. 




CHAPTER L. 

It can by no means be asserted that the other inhabitants of the 
family were as well at ease as they. Amelia was furious, and deigned 
not to pay the shortest visit to the invalid. She affected even to 
avoid speaking to Albert, never looked at him, and would not even 


CONSUELO. 


229 


reply to his morning and evening greeting. And what annoyed her 
the most was, that Albert did not appear so much as to notice her 
spite. 

The canoness, now that she saw the very evident passion of the 
nephew for the adventuress, had no longer a moment’s peace of mind. 
She was even mentally laboring how she might avert the scandal; 
and, to this end, held long and frequent conferences with the chap- 
lain. 

But that holy man was by no means inclined to bring these proceed- 
ings to a close. He had been for a long time a very unimportant per- 
son, quite overlooked among the cares of the family; and he was noAV 
recovering a sort of importance among these new agitations. He had 
the pleasure of playing the spy, of revealing, informing, predicting, 
advising, of stirring in a word at his own pleasure, all the interests of 
the house, while affecting to meddle with none of them, and covering 
himself from the indignation of the young count behind the petticoats 
of the aged aunt. 

But, these two every day discovered new causes for alarm, new mo- 
tives for precaution, but never any means of safety. Every day, the 
good Wenceslawa approached her nephew with a resolve to come to a 
full explanation, but every day a sarcastic smile, or an icy look, check- 
ed the abortive effort. Hourly, she watched an opportunity for glid- 
ing into Consuelo’s room and administering a severe reproof; but at 
every attempt, Albert, as if informed by a familiar demon, met her on 
the threshold, and with a single frown, like that of Olympian Jove, 
lowered the courage and abashed the wrath of the powers adverse to 
liis Ilion. 

The canoness, however, had twice or thrice began a conversation 
with the invalid; and at the moment in which she could talk with 
her alone, she made the best of her time by addressing a great num- 
ber of very trite remarks to her which she thought vastly significant. 
But as Consuelo had no such ambition as she was supposed to enter- 
tain, it was all thrown away upon her. Her surprise, and her air of 
candor and astonishment, at once disarmed the good canoness, who 
never in her life had been able to i-esist a frank accent, or a cordial 
caress. 

She retreated, therefore, in confusion, to confess her defeat to the 
chaplain, and the rest of the day was passed in resolutions for the 
morrow. 

Nevertheless, Albert, who clearly saw what was in process, and ob- 
serving that Consuelo was beginning to suspect something, and to 
grow uneasy, determined to put an end to the annoyance. He watch- 
ed Wenceslawa, therefore, in the passage, one morning, when she 
thought to out-general him by a very early visit to Consuelo, and show- 
ing ihmself suddenly, just as she was turning the key in the lock of 
the invalid’s door. 

“ My good aunt,” said he, taking possession of that hand, and rais- 
ing it to his lips, “ I have something to say to you very low, which 
greatly interests you. It is that the life and health of thq person who 
is sleeping here, are dearer to me than my own happiness. I know 
that your confessor holds it a point of conscience to prevent my devo- 
tion to her, and to destroy the ett’ects of my cares. Had it not been 
for that, your noble heart would never have let you dream of jeopard- 
ing the recovery of an invalid, scarce yet out of danger, by harsh 
words or reproaches. But, since the fanaticism and petty mind of a 


230 


CONSUELO. 


priest can work such a prodigy as to change the sincerest piety and 
purest cliarity into horrid cruelty, I shall oppose to the extent of my 
power the crime of which my poor aunt allows herself to be made the 
instrument, I will guard the invalid night and day, I will not quit her 
for a moment; and, if in spite of-my vigilance, she be torn from me, I 
swear by all that is most solemn in lieaven, I will leave the house of 
my fathers, never to return. I think, when you tell my resolve to the 
chaplain, he will cease annoying you, and endeavoring to prevent the 
kindly instinct of your maternal heart.” 

The amazed canoiiess could only reply to this discourse by melting 
into tears. 

Albert had led her to the end of the gallery, so that the explana- 
tion could not be heard by Consuelo. She complained of the threat- 
ening tone which Albert employed, and endeavored to profit by the 
occasion, to show him the folly of his attachment towards a person 
of such low birth as Nina. 

“ Aunt,” replied Albert, smiling, “ you forgot that if we are of the 
royal blood of the Podiebrads, our ancestors were kings only through 
favor of the peasants and revolted soldiery. A Podiebrad, therefore, 
should not pride himself on his noble origin, but rather regard it as 
an additional motive to attach him to the weak and the poor, since it 
is among them that his strength and power have planted their roots, 
and not so long ago that he can have forgotten it.” 

The canoness closed the conference by retiring to consult the chap- 
lain. 

When Wenceslawa related this conference to the chaplain, he gave 
It as his opinion that it would not be prudent to exasperate the young 
count by remonstrances, nor drive him to extremity by annoying his 
protege — 

“ For,” said he, “ it may occasion a return of his malady.” After 
a pause, he resumed. 

“ It is to Count Christian himself that you must address your rep- 
resentations,” said he. “ Your excessive delicacy has too much em- 
boldened the son. Let your wise remonstrances at length awaken 
the disquietude of his father, that he may take decisive measures 
with respect to this dangerous person.” 

“ Do you suppose,” replied the canoness, “ that I have not already 
done so? But alas! my brother has grown fifteen years older during 
the fifteen days of Albert’s last disappearance. His mind is so enfee- 
bled that it is no longer possible to make him understand any sugges- 
tion. He appears to indulge in a sort of passive resistance to the idea 
of a new calamity of this description, and rejoices like a child at liav- 
ing found his son, and at hearing him reason and conduct himself as 
an intelligent man. He believes him cured of his malady and does 
not perceive that poor Albert is a prey to a new kind of madness, 
more fatal than the first. My brother’s security in this respect is so 
great, and he enjoys it so unaffectedly, that I have not yet found cour- 
age to open his eyes completely as to what is passing around him. It 
seems to me that this disclosure coming from you, and accompanied 
with your religious exhortations, would be listened to with more res- 
ignation, have a better effect, and be less painful to all parties.” 

“ It is too delicate an affair,” replied the chaplain, “to be under- 
taken by a poor priest like me. It will come much better from a 
sister, and your highness can soften the bitterness of the event, by 
expressions of tenderness which I could not venture upon towards 
the august head of the Rudolstadt family.” 


CONSUELO. 


231 


Tliese two grave personages lost many days in deciding upon which 
should bell the cat. During this period of irresolution and apathy, 
in which habit also had its share, love made rapid progress in the 
heart of Albert. Consuelo’s bealth was visibly restored, and nothing 
occurred to disturb the progress of an intimacy which the watchful- 
ness of Argus could not have rendered more chaste and reserved, 
than it w'as simply through true modesty and sincere love. 

Meantime the Baroness Amelia, unable to support her humiliation, 
earnestly entreated her father to take lier back to Prague. Baron 
Frederick, who preferred a life in the forest to an abode^^in the city, 
promised everything that she wished, but put off frotn day to day the 
announcement and preparations for departure. — The baroness saw 
that it was necessary to urge matters on to suit her purpose, and de- 
vised one of those ingenious expedients in which her sex are never 
wanting. She had an understanding with her waiting-maid — a sharp- 
witted and active young Frenchwoman — and one morning, just as her 
father was about to set out tor the chase, she begged him to accom- 
pany her in a carriage to the house of a lady of their acquaintance, 
to whom she had for a long time owed a visit. The baron had some 
difficulty in giving up his gun and his powder-horn to change his 
dress and the employment of the day, but he flattered himself that 
this cojidescension would render Amelia less exacting, and that the 
amusement of the drive would dissipate her ill-humor, and enable 
her to pass a few more days at the Castle of the Diatits without mur- 
muring. When the good man had gained a respite of a week, he 
fancied he h.ad secured the independence of his life; his forethought 
extended no further. He tlierefore resigned himself to the necessity 
of sending Sapphire and Panther to the kennel, Attila, the liawk, 
turned upon its perch with a discontented and mutinous air, which 
forced a heavy sigh from its master. 

The baron at last seated himself in the carriage with his daughter, 
and in three revolutions of the wheel was fast asleep. The coachman 
then received orders frojn Amelia to drive to the nearest post-house. 
They arrived there after two hours of a rapid Journey; and when the 
baron opened his eyes, he found post-horses in his carriage, and every- 
thing ready to set out on the road to Prague. 

“ What means this?” exclaimed the baron; “where are we, and 
whither are we going? Amelia, my dear child, what ^olly is this? 
what is the meaning of this caprice, or rather this pleasantry with 
which you amuse yourself? ” 

To ail her father’s questions the young baroness only replied with 
repeated bursts of laughter, and by childish caresses. At length, when 
she saw the postilion mounted, and the carriage roll lightly along the 
highway, she assumed a serious air, and in a very decided tone spoke 
as follows: “ Mv dear papa, do not be uneasy; ail our luggage is care- 
fully packed. The carriage trunks are filled with all that is necessary 
for our journey. There is nothing left at the Castle of the Giants ex- 
cept your dogs and guns, which will be of no use at Prague; and be- 
sides, you can have them wdienever you wish to send for them. A 
letter will be handed to uncle Christian at breakfast, which is so ex- 
pressed as to make him see the necessity of our departure, without 
unnecessarily grieving him, or making him angry either with you or 
me. I must now humbly beg your pardon for having deceived you, 
but it is nearly a month since you consented to what I at this moment 
execute. I do not oppose your wishes therefore in returning to 


232 


C O N S U E L O. 


Prague; I merely chose a time when you did not contemplate it, .and 
I would wager tliat, after all, you are delighted to be freed from the 
annoy.ance which the quickest preparations for departure entail. My 
position became intolerable, and you did not perceive it. Kiss me, 
dear papa, and do not frighten me with those angry looks of yours.” 

In thus speaking, Amelia, as well as her attendant, stifled a great 
inclination to laugh ; for the baron never had an angry look for any 
one, much less for his cherished daughter. He only rolled his great 
bewildered eyes, a little stupefied, it must be confessed, by surprise. 
If he experienced any annoyance at seeing himself fooled in such 
wise, and any i-eal vexation at leaving his brother and sister without 
bidding them adieu, he was so astonished at the turn things had taken, 
that his uneasiness changed to admiration of his daughter’s tact, ami 
he could only exclaim — 

But how could you arrange everything so that I had not the least 
suspicion ? Faith, I little thought when I took off my boots, and sent 
my hoi-se back to the stable, th.at I was off for Pr.ague, and that I 
should not dine to-day with my brother. It is a strange adventure, 
and nobody will believe me when I tell it. But where have you put 
my travelling-cap, Amelia? Who could sleep in a carriage with this 
hat glued to one’s ears?” 

“ Here it is, dear papa,” said the merry girl, presenting him with his 
fur cap, which he instantly placed on his head with the utmost satis- 
faction. 

“ But my bottle? you h.ave certainly forgotten it, you little wicked 
one.” 

“ Oh ! certainly not,” she exclaimed, handing him a large crystal 
flask, covered with Russia leather and mounted with silver. “I filled 
it myself w ith the best Hungary w ine from my aunt’s cellar. But you 
had better t.aste it yourself; I know it is the description you prefer.” 

“ And my pipe and pouch of Turkish tobacco? ” 

“Nothing is forgotten,” said Amelia’s maid; “his excellency the 
baron will find everything packed in the carriage. Nothing has been 
omitted to enable him to pass the joui’ney agreeably.” 

“Well done!” said the baron, filling his pipe, “but that does not 
clear you of all culpability in this matter, my dear Amelia. You will 
render your bother ridiculous, and make him the laughing stock of 
every one.” 

“Dear papa, it is I who seem ridiculous in the eyes of the w'orld, 
when I .apparently refuse to marry an amiable cousin, wdio does not 
>even deign to look at me, and who, under my very eyes pays assiduous 
court to my music mistress. I have suffered tliis humiliation long 
■enough, and I do not think there are many girls of my rank, my age, 
-and my appearance, who would not h.ave resented it more seriously. 
Of one thing I am certain, that there are girls wdio would not have 
■endured wdiat I have done for the last eighteen months; but, on the 
contrary, w^oidd have put an end to the farce by running ofl* with 
themselves, if they had failed in procuring a partner in their flight. 
For my part, I am satisfied to run off wdth my father; it is a more 
novel as well as a more proper step. What think yoji, dear papa? ” 

“Why, I think the devil’s in you,” replied the baron, kissing his 
daughter; and he passed the rest of his journey gaily, drinking^ eat- 
ing, and smoking by turns, without making any further complaint, or 
expressing any farther astonishment. 

This event did not produce the sens.ation in that family at the Castle 


C O N S U E L O 


283 

of the Gi'iiits wliicli the little baroness had flattered herself it would do, 
To be^iin witb Count Albert, he might liave passed a week without 
noticing the absence of the young baroness, and when the canoness 
iufornied him of it, he merely remarked This is the only clever 
thing which the clever Amelia has done since she set foot here. As 
to my^good uncle, I hope he will soon return to us.” 

, “For my part,” said old Count Christian, ‘*1 regret the departure 
of my brother, because at my age one reckons by weeks and days. 
What is not long for you, Albert, is an eternity for me, and I am not 
so certain as you are of seeing my peaceful and easy-tempered Fred- 
erick again. Well, it’s all Amelia’s doings,” added he, smiling as he 
threw aside the saucy, yet cajoling letter of the young baroness. 
‘ Women's spite pardons not. You were not formed for each other, 
my cliildren, and my pleasant dreams have vanished.” 

While thus speaking, the old count fixed his eyes upon the counte- 
nance of his son with a sort of melancholy satisfaction, as if antici- 
pating some indication of regret; but he found none, and Albert, ten- 
derly pressing his arm, made him understand that he thanked him for 
relinquishing a project so contrary to his inclination. 

“God’s will be done!” ejaculated the old man, “and may your 
heart, my son, be free. You are now well, happy, and contented 
amongst us. I can now die in peace, and a father’s love will comfort 
you after our final separation.” 

“ Do not speak of separation, dear father,” exclaimed the young 
count, his eyes suddenly filling with tears; “ I cannot bear the idea.” 

The canoness, who began to be affected, received at this moment a 
significant glance from the chaplain, who immediately rose, and with 
feigned discretion left the room. This was the signal and the order. 
She thought, not without regret and apprehension, that the moment 
was at length come when she must speak, and closing her eyes like a 
person about to leap from the window of a house on fire, she thus be- 
gan, stammering and becoming paler than usual: — 

“ Certainly Albert loves his father tenderljq and would not willingly 
inflict on him a mortal blow.” 

Albert raised his head, and gazed at his aunt with such a keen and 
penetrating look that she could not utter another word. The old count 
appeared not to have heard this strange observation, and in the silence 
which followed, poor Wenceslawa remained trembling beneath her 
ne])bew’s glance, like a partridge fascinated before the pointer. 

l)Ut Count Christian, rousing from his reverie after a few minutes, 
replied to bis sister as if she had continued to speak, or as if he had 
read in her mind the revelations she was about to make. 

“ Dear sister,” said he, “ if I may give you an advice, it is not to 
torment yourself with things which you do not understand. You 
have never known what it is to love, and the austere rules of a canon- 
ess are not those which befit a young man.” 

“Good God!” murmured the astonished canoness. “Either my 
brother does not understand me, or his reason and piety are about to 
desert him. Is it possible that in his weakness he would encourage or 
treat lightly ” 

“IIow? aunt!” interrupted Albert in a firm tone, and with a 
straiige countenance. “Speak out, since you are forced to it. Ex- 
plain yourself clearly; there must be an end to this constraint — we 
must undei-stand each other.” 

“No, sister; you need not speak,” replied the count; “you have 


C () N S U E I, o. 


234 

nothing new to tell me. I understand perfectly well, n ithout having 
seemed to do so, what has been going on foi‘ some tinie past. The 
period is not yet come to explain ourselves on that subject; vyhen it 
does, I shall know how to act.*’ 

lie began immediately to speak on other subjects, and left the 
canoness astonished, and Albert hesitating and troubled. When the 
chaplain was informed of the manner in which the head of the. farn-^ 
ilv received the counsel which he had indirectly given him, he w’as* 
seized with terror. Count Christian, although seemingly irresolute 
and indolent, had never been a weak man, and sometimes surprised 
those who knew him, by suddenly arousing liimself from a kind of 
somnolency, and acting with energy and wisdom. The priest was 
afraid of having gone too far, and of being reprimanded. He com- 
nmticed thei-efore to undo his work very quickly, and persuaded the 
canoness not to interfere further. A fortnight glided away in this 
manner without anythitig suggesting to Consuelo that she was a sub- 
ject of anxiety to the family. Albert continued his attentions, and 
announced the departure of Amelia as a short absence, but did not 
suffer her to suspect the cause. She began to leave her apartment; 
and the first time she walked in the garden, the old Christian stipport- 
ed the tottering steps of the invalid on his weak and trembling arm. 


CHAPTER LI. 

It was indeed a happy day for Albert when he saw her whom he 
had restored to life, leaning on the arm of his father, and offer him 
her hand in the presence of his family, saying, with an ineffable smile, 
“ This Is he who saved me, and tended me as if I had been his sister.” 

But this day, which was the climax of his happiness, changed sud- 
denly, and more than he could have anticipated, his relations with 
Consuelo. Henceforth, the formalities of the family circle precluded 
her being often alone with him. The old count, who appeared to have 
even a greater regard for her than before her illness, bestowed the ut- 
most care upon her, with a kind of paternal gallantry which she felt 
deeply. The canoness observed a prudent silence, but nevertheless 
made it a point to watch over all her movements, and to form a third 
party in all her interviews with Albert. At length, as the latter gave 
no indication of returning mental alienation, they determined to have 
the pleasure of receiving, and even inviting, relations and neighbors 
long neglected. They exhibited a kind of simple and tender ostenta- 
tion in showing how polite and sociable the young Count Rudolstadt 
had become, and Consuelo, seemed to exact from him, by her looks 
and example, the fulfilment of the wishes of his relations, in exercis- 
ing the duties of a hospitable host, and displaying the manners of a 
man of the world. 

This sudden transformation cost him a good deal : he submitted to 
it, however, to please her he loved, but he would have been better 
satisfied with longer conversations and a less interrupted intercourse 
with her. He patiently endured whole days of constraint and annoy- 
ance, in order to obtain in the evening a woid of encouragement or 
gratitude. But when the canoness came, like an unwelcome spectre, 


C O N S U E L O. 


235 

and placed herself between them, he felt his soul troubled and his 
strength abandon him. He passed nights of torment, and often ap- 
proached the cistern, which remained clear and pellucid since the day 
he had ascended from it, bearing Consuelo in his arms. Plunged in 
mournful reverie, he almost cursed the oath which bound him never 
to return to his hermitage. He was terrified to feel himself thus un- 
happy, and not to have the power of burying his grief in his subter- 
ranean retreat. 

The change in his features after this sleeplessness, and the transi- 
tory but gradually more frequent return of his gloomy and distracted 
air could not fail to excite the observation of his relatives and friend; 
but the latter found means to disperse these clouds and regain her 
empire over him whenever it was threatened. She commenced to 
sing, and immediately the young count, charmed or subdued, was 
consoled by tears, or animated with new enthusiasm. This was an 
infallible remedy; and when he was able to address a few words to 
Her in private, “ Consuelo,” he exclaimed, “ you know the paths to 
my soul: you possess the power refused to the common herd, and 
possess it inore than any other being in this world. You speak in 
language divine; you know how to express the most sublime emo- 
tions, and communicate the impulses of your own inspired soul. 
Sing always when you see me downcast; the words of your songs 
have but little sense for me, they are but the theme, the imperfect in- 
dication on which the music turns and is developed. I hardly hear 
them ; what alone I hear, and what penetrates into my very soul, is 
your voice, your accent, your inspiration. Music expresses all that 
the mind dreams and foresees of mysteiy and grandeur. It is the 
manifestation of a higher order of ideas and sentiments than any to 
which human speech can give expression. It is the revelation of the 
infinite; and when you sing, I only belong to humanity in so far as 
humanity has drunk in what is divine and eternal in the bosom of the 
Creator. All that your lips refuse of consolation and support in the 
ordinary routine of life — all that social tyranny forbids your heart to 
reveal — your songs convey to me a hundredfold. You then respond 
to me with your whole soul, and my soul replies to yours in hope 
and fear, in transports of enthusiasm and rapture.” 

Sometimes Albert spoke thus, in Spanish, to Consuelo in presence 
of his family; but the evident annoyance which the canoness experi- 
enced, as well as a sense of propriety, prevented the young girl from 
replying. At length one day when they were alone in the garden, 
and he again spoke of the pleasures he felt in hearing her sing: 

“ Since music is a language more complete and more persuasive 
than that of words,” said she, “ why do you not speak thus to me, 
you who understand it better than I do?” 

“ I do not understand you, Consuelo,” said the young count, sur- 
prised ; “ I am only a musician in listening to you.” 

“Do not endeavor to deceive me,” she replied; “I never but once 
heard sounds divinely human drawn from the violin, and it was by 
you, Albert, in the grotto of the Schreckenstein. I heard you that day 
before you saw me; I discovered your secret; but you must forgive 
me, and allow me again to hear that delightfid air, of which I recol- 
lect a few bars, and which revealed to me beauties in music, to which I 
was previously a stranger.” 

(^onsuelo sang in a low tone a few phrases which she recollected 
indistinctly, but which Albert immediately recognized. 


236 


C O N S U E L O. 


“It is a popular hymn,” said he, “on some Hussite words. The 
W'ords are by my ancestor, Hyncko Podiebrad, the son of King 
George, and one of the poets of the country. We have an immense 
number of admirable poems by Streye, Simon Lomnicky, and many 
others, which are prohibited by the police. These religious and na- 
tional songs, set to music by the unknown geniuses of Bohemia are 
not all preserved in the memory of her inhabitants. The people re- 
tain some of them, however, and Zdenko, who has an extraordinary 
memory and an excellent taste for music, knows a great many, which 
I have collected and arranged. They are very beautiful, and you will 
have pleasure in learning them. But I can only let you hear them 
in my hermitage ; my violin, with all my music, is there. I have 
there precious manuscripts, collections of ancient Catholic and Prot- 
estant authors. I will wager that you do not know either Josquin, 
many of whose themes Luther has transmitted to us in his choruses, 
nor the younger Claude, nor Arcadelt, nor George Khaw, nor Benoit 
Ducis, nor John de Wiess. Would not this curious research induce 
you, dear Consuelo, to pay another visit to my grotto, from which I 
have been exiled so long a time, and to visit my church, which you 
have not yet seen ? ” 

This proposal, although it excited the curiosity of the young artiste, 
was tremblingly listened to. This frightful grotto recalled recollec- 
tions which she could not thiiik of without a shudder, and in spite of 
all the confidence she placed in him, the idea of returning there alone 
with Albert caused a painful emotion, which he quickly perceived. 

“ You dislike the idea of this pilgrimage,” said he, “ which never- 
theless you promised to renew : let us speak of it no more. Faithful 
to my oath, I shall never undertake it without you.” 

“You remind me of mine, Albert,” she replied, “ and I shall fulfill 
it as soon as you ask it; but, my dear doctor, you forget tliat I have 
not yet the necessary strength. Would you not first permit me to see 
this curious music, and hear this admirable artist, who plays on the 
violin much better than I sing? ” 

“ 1 know not if you jest, dear sister, but this I know, that you shall 
hear me nowhere but in my grotto. It was there I first tried to make 
my violin express the feelings of my heart; for, although I had for 
many years a brilliant and frivolous professor, largely" paid by my 
father, I did not understand it. It was there I learned what true 
music is, and what a sacrilegious mockery is substituted for it by the 
greater portion of mankind. For my own part, I declare that I could 
not draw a sound from my violin, if my spirit were not bowed before 
the divinity. Were I even to see you unmoved beside me, attentive 
merely to the composition of the pieces I play and curious to scruti- 
nize my talent, I doubt not that I would play so ill that you would 
soon weary of listening to me. I have never, since I knew how to 
use it, touched the instrument consecrated by me to the praise of 
God or to the expression of my ardent prayers, without feeling my- 
self transported into an ideal world, and without obeying a sort of 
mysterious inspiration not always under my control.” 

■“ 1 am not unworthy,’ replied Consuelo, deeply impressed and all 
attention, “ to comprehend your feelings with regard to music. I 
hope soon to be able to join your prayer with a soul so fervent and 
collected that my presence shall not interfere with your inspiration. 
Ah, my dear Albert, why cannot my master Porpora hear what you 
say of the heavenly art? He would throw himself at your feet. 


C O N S U E L O. 


237 

Nevertheless, this great artist himself is less severe in his views on 
this subject than you are. He thinks the singer and the virtuoso 
should draw their inspiration from the sympathy and admiration of 
their auditory.” 

^ “ It is perhaps because Porpora confounds, in music, religious sen- 
timent with human thought, and that he looks upon sacred music 
with the eyes of a Catholic. If I were in his place 1 would reason as 
he does. If I were in a communion of faith and sympathy with a 
people professing the same worship as myself, I would seek in contact 
with these souls, animated with a like religious sentiment, the inspira- 
tion which heretofore I have been forced to court in solitude, and 
which consequently I have hitherto imperfectly realized. If ever I 
have the pleasure of mingling the tones of my violin with those of 
your divine voice, Consuelo, doubtless I would ascend higher than I 
have ever done, and my prayer would be more worthy of the Deity. 
But do not forget, dear child, that up to this day my opinions have 
been an abomination in the eyes of those who surrounded me, and 
that those whom they failed to shock, would have turned them into 
ridicule. This is why I have hidden as a secret between God, poor 
Zdenko,and myself, the humble gift which I possess. My lather likes 
music, and would have this instrument, which is sacred to me as the 
cymbals of the Elusinian mysteries, conduce to his amusement. 
What would become of me if they were to ask me to accompany a 
cavatina for Amelia? and what would be my father’s feelings if 
I were to play one of those old Hussite airs which have sent so many 
Bohemians into the mines or to the scaffold? or a more modern 
hymn of our Lutheran ancestors, from whom lie blushes to have de- 
scended ? Alas ! Consuelo, I know nothing more modern. There are, 
no doubt, admirable things of a later date. From what you tell me of 
Handel and tlie other great masters from whose works you have 
been instructed, their music would seem to me superior in many re- 
spects to that which I am about to teach you. But to know^and 
learn this music, it would be necessary to put myself in relation with 
another musical world, and it is with you alone that I can resolve to 
do so — with you alone I can seek the despised or neglected treasure 
which you are about to bestow on me in overflowing measure.” 

“ And I,” said Consuelo, smiling, “ think I shall not undertake the 
charge of this education. What I heard in the grotto was so beauti- 
ful, so grand, so incomparable, that I should fear in doing so, only to 
muddy a spring of crystal. Oh ! Albert, I see plainly tliat you know 
more of music than I do. And now what will you say to the profane 
music of which I am forced to be a professor? I fear to discovei- in 
this case, as in the other, that I have hitherto been beneath my mis- 
sion, and guilty of equal ignorance and frivolity.” 

“ Far from thinking so, Consuelo, I look upon your profession as 
sacred; and as it is the loftiest which a woman can embrace, so is 
your soul the most worthy to fill such an office.” 

“ Stay — stay — dear count,” replied Consuelo, smiling. “ From my 
often speaking to you of the convent where I learned music, and the 
church where I sung the praises of God, you conclude that I was 
destined to the service of the altar, or the modest teachings of the 
cloister. But if I should inform you that the zingarella, faithful to 
her origin, was from infancy the sport of circumstances, and that her 
education was at once a mixture of religious and profane, to which 
lier will was equally inclined, careless whether it were in the monas- 
tery or the theatre ? ” 


C O N S U E L O. 


238 

Certain that God has placed his seal on your forehead and devoted 
you to holiness from your mother’s womb, I should not trouble my- 
self about these things, but retain the conviction that you would be 
as pure in the theatre as in the cloister.” 

“ What ! would not your strict ideas of morality be shocked at being 
brought in contact with an actress ? ” 

“ In the dawn of religion,” said he, “ the theatre and the temple . 
were one and the same sanctuary. In the purity of their primitive 
ideas, religious worship took the form of popular shows. The arts 
have their birth at the foot of the altar. The dance itself, that art 
now consecrated to ideas of impure voluptuousness, was the music of 
the senses in the festivals of the gods. Music and poetry were the 
highest expressions of faith, and woman endowed with genius and 
beauty was at once a sybil and priestess. To these severely grand 
forms of the past, absurd and culpable distinctions succeeded. Ke- 
ligion proscribed beauty from its festivals, and woman from its 
solemnities. Instead of ennobling and directing love, it banished and 
condemned it. Beauty, woman, love, cannot lose their empire. Men 
have raised for themselves other temples which they call theatres, 
and where no other god presides. Is it your fault, Consuelo, if they 
have become dens of corruption ? Nature, who perfects her prodigies 
without troubling herself as to how men may receive them, has 
formed you to shine among your sex, and to shed over the world the 
treasures of your power and genius. — The cloister and the tomb are 
synonymous: you cannot, without morally committing suicide, bury 
the gifts of providence. You were obliged to wing your flight to a freer 
atmosphere. Energy is the condition of certain natures; an irresisti- 
ble impulse impels them ; and the decrees of the Deity in this respect 
are so decided, that he takes away the faculties which he has bestow- 
ed , so soon as they are neglected. The artist perishes and becomes 
extinct in obscurity, just as the thinker wanders and pines in solitude, 
and just as all human intellect is deteriorated, and weakened, and en- 
ervated, by inaction and isolation. Repair to the theatre, Consuelo, 
if you please, and submit with resignation to the apparent degrada- 
tion, as the representative for the moment of a soul destined to suffer, 
of a lofty mind which vainly seeks for sympathy in the world around 
us, but which is forced to abjure a melancholy that is not the element 
of its life, and out of which the breath of the Holy Spirit imperiously 
expels it.” 

Albert continued to speak in this strain for a considerable time with 
great animation, hurrying Consuelo on to the recesses of his retreat. 
He had little difficulty in communicating to her his own enthusiasm 
for art, as in making her forget her first feeling of repugnance to re- 
enter the grotto. When she saw that he anxiously desired it, she be- 
gan to entertain a wish for this interview, in order to become better 
acquainted with the ideas which this ardent yet timid man dared to 
express before her so boldly. These ideas were new to Consuelo, and 
perhaps they were entirely so in the mouth of a person of noble rank 
of that time and country. They only struck her however as the bold 
and frank expression of sentiments which she herself had frequently 
experienced in all their force. Devout, and an actress, she every day 
heard the canoness and the chaplain unceasingly condemn her breth- 
ren of the stage. In seeing herself restored to' her proper sphere by a 
serious and reflecting man, she felt her heart throb and her bosom 
swell with exultation, as if she had been carried up into a more ele- 


C () N S U E L (). 


239 


Tated and congenial life. Her eyes were moistened with tears and 
her cheeks glowed with a pure and holy emotion, when at the end of 
an avenue she perceived the canoness, who was seeking her. 

“ Ah ! dear priestess,” said Albert, pressing her arm against his 
breast, “ will you not come to pray in my church?” 

“ Yes, certainly I shall go,” she replied. 

“ And when?” 

“ Whenever you wish. Do you think I am able yet to undertake 
this new’ exploit? ” 

“ Yes; because we shall go to the Schreckenstein in broad daylight 
and by a less dangerous route than the well. Do you feel sufficient 
courage to rise before the daw n and to escape through the gates as 
soon as they are opened? I shall be in this underw’ood w'hich you see 
at the side of the hill there by the stone cross, and shall serve as your 
guide.” 

“ Very well, I promise,” replied Consuelo, not without a slight pal- 
pitation of heart. 

“It appears rather cool this evening for so long a walk — does it 
not? ” asked the canoness, accosting them in her calm yet searching 
manner. 

Albert made no reply. He could not dissemble. Consuelo, who 
did not experience equal emotion, passed her other arm within that 
of the canoness, and kissed her neck. Wenceslawa vainly pretended 
indifference, but in spite of herself she submitted to the ascendancy 
of this devout and affectionate spirit. She sighed, and on entering 
the castle proceeded to put up a prayer for her conversion. 


CHAPTER LII. 

Many days passed away however without Albert’s wish being ac 
complished. It was in vain that Consuelo rose before the dawn and 
passed the draw’bridge; she alwa3's found his aunt or the chaplain 
wandering on the esplanade, and from thence reconnoitering all the 
open country which she must traverse in order to gain the copsewood 
on the hill. She determined to walk alone within raiige of their ob- 
servation, and give up the project of joining Albert, who, from his 
green and wooded retreat, recognized the enemy on the look-out, took 
a long walk in the forest glades; and re-entered the castle without be- 
ing perceived. 

“ You have had an opportunity of enjoying an early walk. Signora 
Porporina,” said the canoness at breakfast. “ Were you not afraid 
that the dampness of the morning might be injurious to your 
health?” 

“ It was I, aunt, who advised the signora to breathe the freshness of 
the morning air; and I think these walks will be veiy useful to her.” 

“ I should have thought that, for a person who devotes herself to the 
cultivation of her voice,” said the canoness, with a little affectation, 
“ our mornings are somewhat foggy. But if it is under your direc- 
tions ” 

“ Have confidence in Albert,” interrupted Count Christian ; “ he has 
proved himself as good a physician as he is a good son and a faithful 
friend.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


240 

The dissimulation to which Consiielo was forced to yield with 
blushes, was very painful to her. She complained gently to Albert 
when she had an opportunity of speaking to him in private, and begged 
him to renounce his project, at least until his aunt’s vigilance should 
be foiled. Albert consented, but entreated her to continue her walks 
in till* environs of the park, so that he might join her whenever an op- 
portunity presented itself. 

Cousnelo would gladly have been excused, although she liked walk- 
ing, and felt how necessary to her convalescence it was, to enjoy ex- 
ercise for some time every day, free from the restraint of this enclos- 
ure of walls and moats, where her thoughts were stifled as if she had 
been a prisoner ; yet it gave her pain thus to practise deception to- 
waids those whom she respected, and from whom she received hospi- 
tality, Love, however, removes many obstacles, but friendship reflects, 
and Cousnelo reflected much. They were now enjoying the last fine 
days of summer; for several months had passed since Consuelo had 
come to dwell in the Castle of the Giants. What a summer for Con- 
suelo! The palest autumn of Italy was more light, and rich, and 
genial. But this warm, moist air, this sky, often veiled by white and 
fleecy clouds, had also their charm and their peculiar beauty. She 
found an attraction in these solitary walks, which increased perhaps 
her disinclination to revisit the cavern. In spite of the resolution she 
had formed, she felt that Albert would take a load from her bosom 
in giving her back her promise; and when she found herself no longer 
under the spell of his supplicating looks and enthusiastic words, she 
secretly blessed his good aunt, who prevented her fulfilling her engage- 
ment by the obstacles she every day placed in the way. 

One morning, as she wandered along the bank of the mountain 
streamlet, she observed Albert leaning on the balustrade of the par- 
tei-re, far above her. Notwithstanding the distance which separated 
them, she felt as if incessantly under the disturbed and passionate 
gaze of this man, by whom she suffered herself in so great a degree to 
be governed. “ My situation here is somewhat strange ! ” slie ex- 
claimed; “ while this persevering friend observes me to see that I am 
faithful to the promise I have made, without doubt I am watched from 
some other part of the castle, to see that I maintain no relations with 
him that their customs and ideas of propriety would proscribe. I do 
not know what is passing in their minds. The Baroness Amelia does 
not return. The canoness appears to grow cold towards me, and to 
distrust me. Count Christian redoubles his attentions, and expresses 
his dread of the arrival of Porpora, which will probably be the signal 
for my departure. Albert appears to have forgotten that I forbade 
him to hope. As if he had a right to expect everything from me, he 
asks nothing, and does not abjure a passion which seems, notwith- 
standing my inability to return it, to render him happy. In the mean 
time, here I am, as if I were engaged in attending every morning at 
an appointed place of meeting, to which I wish he may not come, ex- 
posing myself to the blame — nay, for aught I know, perhaps to the 
scorn — of a family who cannot understand either my friendship for 
him nor my position towards him; since indeed I do not comprehend 
them myself nor foresee their result. 

“ What a strange destiny is mine! Shall I then be condemned ff)r- 
ever to devote myself to others, without being loved in return, or with- 
out being able to love those whom I esteem ? ” 

In the midst of these reflections a profound melancholy seized her. 


CONSUELO. 


241 


She felt the necessity of belonging to herself— that sovereign and legit- 
imate want, the necessary condition of progress and development of 
the true artist. The watchful care which she had promised to observe 
towards Count Albert, weighed upon her as an iron chain. The bit- 
ter recollections of Anzoleto and of Venice clung to her, in the inac- 
tion and solitude of a life too monotonous and regular for her power- 
ful organization. 

She stopped near the rock which Albert had often shown her as 
being the place where he had first seen her, an infant, tied with thongs 
on her mother’s shoulders like the pedlar’s pack, and running over 
mountains and valleys, like the grasshopper of the fable, heedless of 
the morrow, and without a thought of advancing old age and inexor- 
able poverty. “ O, ray poor mother! ” thought the young zingarella, 
“ here am I, brought back by my incomprehensible fate to a spot which 
you once traversed only to retain a vague recollection of it and the 
pledge of a touching kindness. You were then young and handsome, 
and doubtless could have met many a place where love and hospitality 
would have awaited you — society which would have absolved and 
transformed you, and in the bosom of which your painful and wander- 
ing life would have at last tasted comfort and repose. But you felt, 
and always said, that this comfort, this repose, were mortal weariness 
to the artist’s soul. You were right — I feel it; for behold me in this 
castle, where, as elsewhere, you would pause but one night. Here I 
am, with every comfort around me, pampered, caressed, and with a 
powerful lord at my feet: and nevertheless, I am weary, weary, and 
suffbcated with restraint.” 

Consuelo, overpowered with an extraordinary emotion, seated her- 
self on the rock. She looked at the sandy path, as if she thought to 
find there the print of her mother’s naked feet. The sheep in pass- 
ing had left some locks of their fleece upon the thorns. This fleece, 
of a reddish brown, recalled the russet hue of her mother’s coarse 
mantle— that mantle which had so long protected her against sun and 
cold, against dust and rain. She had seen it fall from her shoulders 
piece by piece. “And we, too,” she said, “were wandering sheep; 
we, too, left fragments of our apparel on the wayside thorn, but we 
always bore along with us the proud love and the full enjoyment of 
our dear liberty.” 

While musing thus, Consuelo fixed her eyes upon the path of yel- 
low sand which wound gracefully over the hill, and which, widening 
as it reached the valley, disappeared towards the north among the 
green pine-trees and the dark heath. “ What is more beautiful than 
a road?” she thought. “It is the symbol and image of a life of 
activity and variety. What pleasing ideas are connected in my mind 
with the capricious turns of this! I do not recollect the country 
through which it winds, and yet I have formerly passed through it. 
But it should indeed be beautiful, were it only as a contrast to yonder 
dark castle, wdiich sleeps eternally on its immovable rocks. How 
much pleasanter to the eye are these gravelled paths, with their glow- 
ing hue, and the golden broom which shadow them, than the straight 
alleys and stiff paling of the proud domain ? With merely looking at 
the formal lines of" a garden, I feel wearied and overcome. Why 
should my feet seek to reach that which my eyes and thoughts can at 
once embrace, while the free road, which turns aside and is half hid- 
den in the woods, invites me to follow its windings and penetrate its 
mysteries? And then it is the path for all human kind— it is the 
15 


242 


^ () N S U E L O. 


highway of tlie world. It belongs to no master, to close and open it at 
pleasure. It is oidy the powerful and rich that are entitled to tread 
its flowery margins and to breathe its rich perfunie. Every bird may 
build its nest amid its branches; every wanderer may repose his head 
upon its stones — nor wall nor paling shuts out his horizon. Heaven 
does not close before him; so far as his eye can reach, the highway is 
a land of liberty. To the right, to the left, woods, fields — all have 
masters; but the road belongs to him to whom nothing else belongs, 
and how fondly therefore does he love it ! The meanest beggar i)re- 
fers it to asylums, which, were they rich as palaces, would be hut 
prisons to him. His dream, his passion, his hope, will ever be the 
highway. O, my mother, you knew it well, and often t»ld me so! 
Why cannot I reanimate your ashes which repose far from me, be- 
neath the seaweed of the lagunes? Why canst thou not carry me on 
thy strong shoulders, and bear me far, far away, where the swallow 
skims onward to the blue and distant hills, and where the memory of 
the past and the longings after vanished happiness, cannot follow the 
light-footed artist, who travels still taster than they do, and each day 
places a new horizon, a second world, between her and the enemies 
of liberty? My poor mother, why canst thou not still by turns cher- 
ish and oppress me, and lavish alternate kisses and blows, like the 
wind which sometimes caresses and sometimes lays prostrate the 
young corn upon the fields, to raise and cast it down again according 
to its fantasy? Thou hadst a firmer soul than mine, and thou 
wouldst have torn me, either willingly or by force, from the bonds 
which d.aily entangle me!” 

In tlie midst of this entrancing yet mournful reverie, Consuelo was 
struck by the tones of a voice that made her start as if a red-hot iron 
had been placed upon her heart. It was that of a man from the ra- 
vine below, humming in the Venetian dialect the song of the “ Ec/m,” 
one of the most original compositions of Chiozzetto.* The person 
who sung did not exert the full power of liis voice, and his breathing 
seemed affected by walking. He warbled a few notes now and then, 
stopping from time to time to converse with another person, just as if 
he had wished to dissipate the weariness of his journey. He then re- 
sumed his song as before, as if by way of exercise, interrupted it 
again to speak to his companion, and in this manner approached the 
spot where Consuelo sat, motionless, and as if about to faint. She 
could not hear the conversation which took place, as the distance was 
too great; nor coi.ild she see the travellers in consequence of an in- 
tervening projection of the rock. But could she be for an instant de- 
ceived in that voice, in those accents, which she knew so well, and 
the fragments of that song which she herself had taught, and so often 
made her graceless pupil repeat? 

At length the two invisible travellers drew near, and she heard one 
whose voice was unknown to her, say to the other, in bad Italian, 
and with the patois of the country, “ Ah, signor, do not go up there 
— the horses could not follow you, and you would lose sight of me; 
keep by the banks of the stream. See, the road lies before us, and 
the way you are taking is only a path for foot-passengers.” 

The voice which Consuelo knew became more distant, and appeared 
to descend, and soon she heard him ask what fine castle that was on 
the other side. 


“Jean Croce dQ Chioggia, sixteenth century. 


C O N S U E L O. 


243 


“ That is Reisenburg, which means the Castle of the Giants,” re- 
plied the guide, for he was one by profession, and Consuelo could now 
distinguish him at the bottom of the hill, on foot, and leading two 
horses covered with sweat. The had state of the roads, recently in- 
undated by the torrent, had obliged the ridei'S to dismount. The 
traveller followed at a little distance, and Consuelo could at length 
see him by leaning over the rock which protected her. His hack was 
towards her, and he wore a travelling-dress, which so altered his ap- 
pearance, and even his walk, that, had she not heard his voice, she 
could not have recognised him. He stopped, however, to look at the 
castle, and taking off his broad-leafed hat, wiped his face with his 
handkerchief. Although only able to distinguish liim imperfectly 
from the great height at which she was placed, she knew at once 
those golden and flowing locks, and recognised the movement he was 
accustom(?d to make in raising them from his forehead or neck when 
‘he was warm. 

“ This seems a very fine castle,” said he. “ If I had time, I should 
like to ask the giants for some breakfast.” 

“ Oh, do not attempt it,” said the guide, shaking his head. “ The 
Rudolstadts only receive beggars and relations.” 

“Are they not more hospitable than that? May the devil seize 
them, then ! ” 

“ Listen — it is because they have something to conceal.” 

“ A treasure or a crime ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing of that kind ; it is their son, who is mad.” 

“ Deuce take him, too, then ; it would do them a service.” 

The guide began to laugh; Anzoleto commenced to sing. 

“ Come.” said the guide, “ we are now over the worst of the road ; 
if you wish to mount, we may gallop as far as Tusta. The road is 
magnific.eiit— nothing but sand. Once there, you will find the high- 
way to Prague, and excellent post-horses.” 

“ In that case.” said Anzoleto, adjusting his stirrups, “ I may say, 
the fiends seize thee, too! for your jades, your mountain roads, and 
yourself, are all becoming very tiresome.” 

Thus speaking, he slowly mounted his nag, sunk the spurs in its 
side, and without troubling himself about the guide, who followed him 
with great difficulty, he darted off towards the north, raising clouds 
of dust on that road which Consuelo had so long contemplated, and on 
which she had so little expected to see pass, like a fatal vision, the enemy 
of her life, the constant torture of her heart. She followed him with 
her eyes, in a state of stupor impossible to express. Struck with dis- 
gust and fear, so long as she was within hearing of his voice, she had 
remained hidden and trembling. But when he disappeared, when 
she thought she had lost sight of him perhaps for ever, she experi- 
enced only violent despair. She threw herself over the rock to see 
him for a longer time; the undying love which she cherished for him 
awoke again with fervor, and she would have recalled him, but her 
voice died on her lips. The hand of death seemed to press heavily 
on her bosom; her eyes grew dim ; a 'dull noise, like the dashing of 
the sea, murmured in her ears; and falling exhausted at the foot of 
the rock, she found herself in the arras of Albert, who had ap- 
proached without being perceived, and who boro her, apparently dy- 
ing, to a more shady and secluded part of the mountain. 


244 


CONSUELO, 


CHAPTER LIIL 

The fear of betraying her emotion, a secret so long hidden in the 
depths of her soul, restored Consiielo to strength, and enabled her to 
control herself, so that Albert perceived nothing extraordinary in her 
situation. Just as the young Anzoleto and his guide disappeared 
among the distant pine-trees, and Albert might therefore attribute to 
his own presence the danger she had incurred of falling down the 
precipice. The idea of this danger, of which he supposed himself to 
be the cause in terrifying her by his sudden approach, so distressed 
him, that he did not at first perceive Consuelo's confused replies. 
Consuelo, in whom he still inspired a sort of superstitious terror, 
feared that he might divine the mystery. But Albert, since love had 
made him live the life of other men, seemed to have lost the appar- 
ently supernatural faculties which he had formerly possessed. She 
soon conquered her agitation, and Albert’s proposal to conduct her to 
his hermitage, did not displease her at this moment, as it would have 
done a few hours previously. It seemed as if the grave and serious 
character and gloomy abode of this man, who regarded her with such 
devoted affection, offered themselves as a refuge in which she could 
find strength to combat the memory of her unhappy passion. “ It is 
Providence,” thought she, “ who has sent me this friend in the midst 
of my trials, and the dark sanctuary to which he would lead me, is an 
emblem of the tomb in which I should wish to be- buried, rather than 
pursue the track of the evil genius who has just passed me. Oh, yes, 
my God ! rather than follow his footsteps, let the earth open to re- 
ceive me, and snatch me forever from the living world ! ” 

“ Dear Consolation,” said Albert, “ I came to tell you that my aunt, 
having to examine her accounts this morning, is not thinking of us, 
and we are at length at liberty to accomplish our pilgrimage. "Never- 
theless, if you still feel any repugnance to revisit places which recall 
so much suffpiring and terror ” 

“ No, my friend,” replied Consuelo: “ on the contrary, I have never 
felt better disposed to worship with you, and to soar aloft together on 
the wings of that sacred song which you promised to let me hear.” 

They took the way together towards the Schrekenstein,and as they 
buried themselves in the wood in an opposite direction to that taken 
by Anzoleto, Consuelo felt more at ease, as if each step tended to 
veaken the charm of which she felt the force. She walked on so 
eagerly, that although grave and reserved. Count Albert might have 
ascribed her anxiety to a desire to please, if he had not felt" that dis- 
trust of himself and of his destiny, which formed the principal feature 
of his character. 

He conducted her to the foot of the Schreckenstein, and stopped at 
the entrance of a grotto filled with stagnant water, and nearly hidden 
by the luxuriant vegetation. “ This grotto, in which you may remark 
some traces of a vaulted construction,” said he, “ is called in the 
country ‘ The Monk’s Cave.’ Some think it was a cellar of a con- 
vent, at a period when, in place of these ruins, there stood here a for- 
tified town ; others relate that it was subsequently the retreat of a 
repentant criminal, who turned hermit. However this may be, no 
one dares to penetra,te the recesses; and every one says that the 
water is deep, and is imbued with a mortal poison, owing to the veins 


CONSUELO. 


245 

of copper through which it runs in its passage. But this water is 
really neither deep nor dangerous; it sleeps upon a bed of rocks, 
and we can easily cross it, Consuelo, if you will once again confide 
in the strength of my arm and the purity of my love.” 

Thus saying, after having satisfied himself that no one had followed 
or observed them, he took her in his arms and entering the water, 
which reached almost to his knee, he cleared a passage through the 
shrubs and matted ivy, which concealed the bottom of the grotto. In 
a very short time he set her down upon a bank of fine dry sand, in a 
place completely dark. He immediately lighted the lantern with which 
he was furnished, and after some turns in subterranean galleries, sim- 
ilar to those which Consuelo had already traversed, they" found them- 
selves at the door of a cell, opposite to that which she had opened 
the first time. 

“ This subterranean building,” said he, “ was originally destined to 
serve as a place of refuge in time of war, either for the principal in- 
habitants of the town, which covered the hill, or for the lords of the 
Castle of the Giants, to whom this town belonged, who could enter it 
secretly by the passages with which you are already acquainted. If a 
hermit, as they assert, since inhabited the Monk’s Cave, it is probable 
that he was aware of this retreat; because the gallery which we have 
just traversed, has been recently cleared out, whilst I have found 
those leading from the castle, so filled up in many places with earth 
and gravel, that I found difficulty in removing them. Besides, the 
relics I discovered here, the remnants of matting, the pitcher, the 
crucifix, the lamp, and above all the skeleton of a man lying on his 
back, his hands crossed on his breast, as if.in a last prayer at the hour 
of his final sleep, proved to me that a hermit had here piously and 
peaceably ended his mysterious existence. Our peasants still believe 
that the hermit's spirit inhabits the depths of the mountain. They 
aflSrm that they have often seen him wander around it, or flit to the 
heights by the light of the moon; that they have heard him pray, sigh, 
sob, and that even a strange, incomprehensible music has been wafted 
towards them, like a suppressed sigh, on the wings of the breeze. 
Even I myself, Consuelo, when despair peopled nature around me 
with phantoms and prodigies, have thought I saw the gloomy peni- 
tant prostrate under the Hussite. I have fancied that I heard his 
plaintive sobs and heart-rending sighs ascend from the depths of the 
abyss. But since I discovered and inhabited this cell, I have never 
seen any hermit but myself— any spectre but my own figure — i!or 
have I heard any sobs save those which issued from my own breast.” 

Since Consuelo’s first interview with Albert in the cavern, she had 
never heard him utter an irrational word. She did not venture, 
therefore, to allude to the manner in which he had addressed herself, 
nor to the illusions in the midst of which she had surprised him. 
But she was astonished to observe that they seemed absolutely for- 
gotten, and not wishing to recal them, she merely asked if solitude 
had really delivered him from the disquietude of w’hich he spoke. 

“ I cannot tell you precisely,” he replied; “and at least not till you 
exact it, can I urge my memory to the task. I must have been mad, 
and the efforts i made to conceal it, betrayed it yet more. When, 
thanks to one whom tradition had handed down the secret of these 
caverns, I succeeded in escaping from the solicitude of my relatives, 
and hiding my despair, my existence changed. I recovered a sort of 
empire over myself, and secure of concealment from troublesome wit- 


246 


C O N S IT E L O, 


nesses, 1 was able at length to appear tranquil and resigned in the 
bosom of my family.” 

Consiielo perceived that poor Albert was under an illusion in some 
respects, but this was not the time to enlighten him; and, pleased to 
hear him speak of the past with such unconcern, she began to exam- 
ine the cell with more attention than she had bestowed on it the first 
time. There was no appearance of the care and neatness which she 
formerly observed. The dampness of the walls, the cold of the at- 
mosphere, and the mouldiness of the books, betrayed complete aban- 
donment. “You see that I have kept my word,” said Albert, who 
had just succeeded with great difficulty in lighting the stove. “ I have 
never set foot here since the day you displayed your power over me 
by tearing me away.” 

Consuelo had a question on her lips, but restrained herself. She 
was about to ask if Zdenko, the friend, the faithful servant, the zeal- 
ous guardian, had also abandoned and neglected the hermitage. But 
she recollected the profound sorrow which Albert always displayed 
when she hazarded a question as to what had become of him, and 
why she had never seen him since the terrible encounter in the cav- 
ern ? Albert had always evaded these questions, either by pretending 
not to understand her, or by begging her to fear nothing for the inno- 
cent. She was at first persuaded that Zdenko had received and faith- 
fully fulfilled the command of his master never to appear before his 
eyes. But when she resumed her solitary walks, Albert, in order to 
completely reassure her, had sworn, while a deadly paleness over- 
spread his countenance, that she should not encounter Zdenko, who 
had set out on a long voyage. In fact no one had seen him since that 
time, and they thought he was dead in some corner, or that he had 
quitted the country. 

Consuelo believed neither of these suppositions. She knew too 
well the passionate attachment of Zdenko to Albert to think a separa- 
tion possible. As to his death, she thought of it with a terror she 
hardly admitted to herself, when she recollected Albert’s dreadful 
oath to sacrifice the life of this unhappy being if necessary to the re- 
pose of her he loved. But she rejected this frightful suspicion on re- 
calling the mildness and humanity which the whole of Albert’s life 
displayed. Besides he had enjoyed perfect tranquillity for many 
months, and no apparent demonstration on the part of Zdenko had 
reawakened the fury which the young count had for a moment mani- 
fested. He had forgotten that unhappy moment which Consuelo also 
struggled to forget; he only remembered what took place in the cav- 
ern whilst he was in possession of his reason. Consuelo therefore 
concluded that he had forbidden Zdenko to enter or approach the 
castle, and that the poor fellow, through grief or anger, had con- 
demned himself to voluntary seclusion in the hermitage. She took it 
for granted that Zdenko would come out on the Schreckenstein onlv 
by night for air, and to conver.se with Albert, who no doubt took care 
of, and watched over him who had for so long a time taken care of 
himself. On seeing the condition of the cell, Consuelo was driven to 
the conclusion that he was angry at his master, and had displayed it 
by neglecting his retreat. But as Albert had assured her when they 
entered the grotto, that there was contained in it no cause of alarm, 
she seized the opportunity when his attention was otherwise engaged, 
to open the rusty gate of what he called his church, and in this way 
to reach Zdenko’s cell, where doubtless she would find traces of hiM 


C O N S U E I. (), 


247 


recent presence. — The door yielded as soon as she had turned the key, 
but the darkness was so great that she could see nothing. She waited 
till Albert had passed into the mysterious oratoi-y which he had prom- 
ised to show her, and which he was preparing for her reception, and 
she then took a light and returned cautiously to Zdenko’s chamber, 
not without trembling at the idea of finding him there in person. 
But there was not the faintest evidence of his existence. The bed of 
leaves and the sheepskins had been removed. The seat, the tools, 
the sandals of undressed liide — all had disappeared, and one would 
have said, to look at the dripping walls, that this vault had never 
sheltered a living being. 

A feeling of sadness and terror took p^»ssession of her at this dis- 
covery. A mystery shrouded the fate ot this unfortunate, and Con- 
stielo accused herself of being perhaps the cause of a deplorable event. 
There were two natures in Albert: the one wise, the other mad: the 
one polished, tender, merciful ; the other strange, untamed, perhaps 
violent and implacable. His fancied identity with the fanatic John 
Ziska, his love for the recollections of Hussite Bohemia, and that 
mute and patient, but at the same time profound passion which he 
nourished for herself — all occurred at this moment to her mind, and 
seemed to confirm her most painful suspicions. Motionless and froz- 
en with horror, she hardly ventured to glance at the cold and naked 
floor of the grotto, dreading to find on it tracks of blood. 

She was still plunged in these reflections, when she heard Albert 
tune his violin, and soon she heard him playing on the admirable in- 
strument the ancient psalm which she so mucli wished to hear a sec- 
ond time. The music was so original, and Albert performed it with 
such sweet expression, that, forgetting her distress, and attracted and 
as if charmed by a magnetic power, she gently approached the spot 
where he stood. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

The door of the church was open, and Consuelo stopped upon the 
threshold to observe the inspired virtuoso and the strange sanctuary. 
— This so-called church was nothing but an immense grotto, hewn, 
or rather cleft out of the rock irregularly by the hand of nature, and 
hollowed out by the subterranean force of the water. Scattered 
torches, placed on gigantic blocks, shed a fantastic light on the green 
sides of the cavern, and partially revealed dark recesses in the depths 
of which the huge forms of tall stalactites loomed like spectres alter- 
nately seeking and shunning the light. The enormous sedimentary 
deposits on the sides of the cavern assumed a thousand fantastic 
forms. Sometimes they seemed devouring serpents, rolling over and 
interlacing each other. Sometimes hanging from the roof and shoot- 
ing upwards from the floor, they wore the aspect of the colossal teeth 
of'some monster, of which the dark cave beyond might pass for the 
gaping jaws. Elsewhere they might have been taken for misshapen 
statues, giant images of the demi-gods of antiquity. A vegetation 
appropriate to the grotto — huge lichens, rough as dragon’s scales; fes 
toons of heavy-leaved scolopendra, tufts of young cypresses recently 
planted in the middle of the enclosure on little heaos of artificial soil, 


248 


C O N S U E L O. 


not unlike graves — gave the place a terrific and sombre aspect whicTi 
deeply impressed Consuelo. To her first feeling of terror, admiration 
however quickly succeeded. She approached and saw Albert stand- 
ing on the margin of the fountain which sprung up in the midst of 
the cavern. This water, although gushing out abundantly, was en- 
closed in so deep a basin that no movement was visible on its surface. 
It was calm and motionless as a block of dark sapphire, and the beau- 
tiful aquatic plants with which Albert and Zdenko had clothed its 
margin, were not agitated by the slightest motion. The spring was 
warm at its source, and the tepid exhalations with which it filled the 
cavern, caused a mild and moist atmosphere favorable to vegetation. 
It gushed from its fountain in many ramifications, of which some lost 
themselves under the rocks Avith a dull noise, while others ran gently 
into limpid streams in the interior of the grotto and disappeared in 
the depths beyond. 

When Count Albert, who until then had beeTi only trying the 
strings of his violin, saw Consuelo advance towards him, he came for- 
ward to meet her, and assisted her to cross the channels, over which 
he had thrown, in the deepest spots, some trunks of trees, while in 
other places rocks on a level wdth the water, offered an easy passage 
to those habituated to it. He offered his hand to assist her, and 
sometimes lifted her in his arms. But this time Consuelo was afraid, 
not of the torrent which flowed silently and darkly under her feet, 
but of the mysterious guide towards Avhoin she was drawn by an 
irresistible sympathy, while an indefinable repulsion at the same time 
held her back. Having reached the bank she beheld a spectacle not 
much calculated to reassure her. It was a sort of quadrangular mon- 
ument, formed of bones and human skulls, arranged as if in a cata- 
comb. 

“ Do not be uneasy,” said Albert, who felt her shudder. “ These 
are the honored remains of the martyrs of my religion, and they 
form the altar before which I love to meditate and pray.” 

“What is your religion then, Albert? ” said Consuelo, in a sweet 
and melancholy voice. — “Are these bones Hussite or Catholic? 
Were not both the victims of impious fury, and martyrs of a faith 
equally sincere? Is it true that you prefer the Hussite doctrines to 
those of your relatives, and that the reforms subsequent to those of 
John Huss, do not appear to you sufficiently radical and decisive? 
Speak, Albert — what am I to believe? ” 

“ If they told you that I preferred the reform of the Hussites to 
that of the Lutherans, and the great Procopius to the vindictive Cal- 
vin, as much as I prefer the exploits of the Taborites to those of the 
soldiers of Wallenstein, they have told you the truth, Consuelo. But 
what signifies my creed to you, who seem instinctively aware of 
truth, and who know the Deity better than I do? God forbid that I 
should bring you here to trouble your pure soul and peaceful con- 
science with my tormenting reveries! Remain as you are, Consuelo; 
you were born pious and good ; moreover, you were born poor and 
obscure, and nothing has changed in you the pure dictates of reason 
and the light of justice. We can pray together without disputing — 
you who know everything although having learned nothing, and I 
who know very little after a long and tedious study. In whatever 
temple you raise your voice, the knowledge of the true God will be in 
your heart, and the feeling of the true faith will kindle your soul. It 
is not to instruct you, but in order that your revelation may be im- 


C () N S U E L o. 249 

parted to me, that I wished oiir voices and our spirits to unite before 
this altar, formed of the bones of my fathers.” 

“ I was not mistaken, then, in thinking .that these honored remains, 
as yon call them, aie those of Hussites, thrown into the fountain of 
the Schreckenstein during the bloody fury of the civil wars, in the time 
of your ancestor John Ziska, who, they say, made fearful reprisals? I 
have been told that, after burning the village, he destroyed the wells. 
I fancy I can discover in the obscurity of this vault, a circle of hewed 
•stones above my head, which tells me that we are precisely under a spot 
where I have often sat when fatigued after searching for yon in vain. 
Say, Count Albert, is this really the place that you have baptized as 
the Stone of Expiation ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, it is here,” replied Albert, “ that torments and atrocious vio- 
lence have consecrated the asylum of my prayers, and the sanctuary 
of my grief. You see enormous blocks suspended above our heads, 
and others scattered on the banks of the stream. The just hands of 
the Taborites flung them there by the ordei-s of him whom they called 
the Terrible Blind Man : but they only served to force back the waters 
towards those subterranean beds in which they succeeded in forcing 
a passage. The wells were destroyed, and I have covered their ruins 
with cypress, but it would have needed a mountain to fill this cavern. 
The blf)cks which were heaped up in the mouth of the well, were 
stopped by a winding stair, similar to that which you had the courage 
to descend in my garden at the castle. Since that time, the gradual 
pressure of the soifhas thrust them closer together, and confines them 
better. If any portion of the mass escapes, it is during the winter 
frosts; you have therefore nothing to fear from this fall.” 

“ It was not that of which I was thinking, Albert,” replied Consu- 
elo, looking towards the gloomy altar on which he had placed his 
Stradivarius. “ I asked myself why you render exclusive worship to 
the memory of these victims, as if there were no martyrs on the 
other side, and as if the crimes of the one were more pardonable 
than those of the other? ” 

Consuelo spoke thus in a severe tone, and looking distrustfully at 
Albert. She remembered Zdenko, and all her questions, had she 
dared so to utter them, assumed in her mind a tone of interrogation, 
such as would befit a judge towards a criminal. 

The painful emotion which suddenly seized upon the count seemed 
the confession of remorse. He passed his hands over his forehead, 
then pressed them against his breast, as if it were being torn asun- 
der. Ilis coimtenance changed in a frightful manner, and Consuelo 
feared that he might have- only too well understood her. 

“ You do not know what harm you do me,” said he, leaning upon 
the heap of bones, and drooping his head toward the withered skulls, 
which seemed to gaze on him from their hollow orbits. “No, you 
cannot know it, Consuelo, and your cold remarks recal the memory 
of the dreary past. You do not know that you speak to a man who 
has lived through ages of grief, and who, after being the blind instru- 
ment of inflexible justice in the hands of God, has received his recom- 
pense and undergone his punishment. I have so suffered, so wept, so 
expiated my dreary destiny, so atoned for the horrors to which my 
fate subjected me, tlsat I had at last flattered myself I could forget 
them. Forgetfulness! — yes, forgetfulness! — that vvas the craving 
which consumed my aching breast; that was my vow and my daily 
prayer; that was the token of my alliance with man and my recon- 


250 


C O N S U E L (). 


ciliation witli God, which, during long yeaivs, I had implored, pros- 
trate upon these mouldering bones. When I first saw you, Consuelo, 
I began to hope; when you pitied me, I thought I was saved. See 
this wreath of withered flowers ready to fall into the dust, and which 
encircles the skull that surmounts the altar. You do not recognise it, 
though I have watered it with many a bitter yet soothing tear. It is 
you who gathered them,' you who sent them to me by the companion 
of ray sorrows, the faithful guardian of this sepulchre. Covering 
them 'with kisses and tears, I anxiously asked myself if you could 
ever feel any true and heartfelt regard for one like myself— a pitiless 
fanatic, an unfeeling tyrant — ” 

“But what are the crimes you have committed?” said Consuelo, 
firmly, distracted with a thousand varying emotions, and emboldened 
by the deep dejection of Albert. “ If you have a confession to make, 
make it here to me, that I may know if I can absolve and love you.” 

“Yes, you may absolve me; for he whom you know, Albert of 
Rudolstadt, has been innocent as a child; but he whom you do not 
know, John Ziska of the Chalice, has been whirled by the wrath of 
Heaven into a career of iniquity.” 

Consuelo saw the imprudence of which she had been guilty, in rous- 
ing the slumbering flame and recalling to Albert’s mind his former 
madness. This, however, was not the moment to combat it, and she 
w'as revolving in her mind some expedient to calm him, and had grad- 
ually sunk into a reverie, wdien suddenly she perceived that Albert no 
longer spoke, no longer held her hand — that he w'as not at her side, 
but standing a few paces off, before the monument, performing on his 
violin the singular airs with which she had been already so surprised 
and charmed. 


CHAPTER LV. 

Albert at first attuned his instrument to several of those ancient 
chaimts, the authors of which are either unknown to us, or forgotten 
among the Bohemians; but the precious airs and meK)dies of which 
Zdenko had retained by ear, wdience the Count had discovered the 
text by dint of study and meditation. He had so thoroughly fed his 
spirit on these compositions, which seem at a first hearing rude and 
barbaric, but which are deeply touching and truly fine in the ear of 
a serious and enlightened judgment, that he had so far assimilated 
them to himself as to have attained the powder of carrying out long 
improvisations on the idea of those themes, of mingling with them his 
own ideas, of recovering and developing the primitive sentiment of 
the compositions, and of abandoning himself to his own personal in- 
spirations, without allowing the original character, so striking and 
austere, of those ancient chaimts, to be lost or altered in his ingenious 
and scientific interpretation of them, Consuelo had promised herself 
that she would hear, and collect tliese invaluable specimens of the ar- 
dent popular genius of old Bohemia. But all power of criticism soon 
forsook her, as well on account of the meditative humor in wdiich she 
cLrinced to be, as in consequence of the vague and rambling tone 
which pervaded that music, all unfamiliar to her ear. 

There is a style of music which may be called natural, because it is 


C () N S U K L O. 


251 


notthe ofTsprinji of science or reflection, but of an inspiration which 
sets at deflance all tlie strictness of rules and convention. I mean 
popular tnusic, and especially that of the peasantry. How many ex- 
quisite compositions are born, live and die,amon" the peasantry, with- 
out ever having been dignified by a correct notation, without ever hav- 
ing deigned to be confined within tlie absolute limits of a distinct and 
definite theme. The unknown artist who improvises his rustic ballad 
while watching his flocks, or guiding his ploughshare, and there are 
such even in countries which would seem the least poetical, will ex- 
perience great difficulty in retaining and fixing his fugitive fancies. 
He communicates his ballad to other musicians, children like himself 
of nature, and these circulate it from hamlet to hamlet, from cot to cot, 
each modifying it according to the bent of his own individual genius. 
It is hence that these pastoral songs and romances, so artlessly strik- 
ing or so deeply touching, are for the most part lost, and rarely exist 
above a single century in the memory of their rustic composers. Mu- 
sicians completely formed under the rules of art rarely trouble them- 
selves to collect them. Many even disdain them from very lack of an 
intelligence sufficiently pure, and a taste sufficiently elevated to admit 
of their appreciating them. Others are dismayed by the difficulties 
which they encounter the moment they endeavor to discover that true 
and original version, which, perhaps, no longer retains its existence 
even in the mind of its author, and which certainly was never at any 
time recognised as a definite and invariable type by any one of his nu- 
merous interpreters. 

Some of these have altered it through ignorance, others have devel- 
oped, adorned and embellished it, as an effect of their superiority, 
because the teachings of their art have not instructed them to repu- 
diate its natural and instinctive spirit. They are not themselves 
aware that they have transformed the primitive composition, nor are 
their artless auditors more conscious of it than they. The peasant 
examines not nor compares. When heaven has made him a musi- 
cian, he sings as the birds sing, especially as sings the nigbtingale, 
whose improvisation is everlasting, although the infinitely varied ele- 
ments of its strain are the same for ever. Moreover, this popular 
genius is unlimited in its exuberance.* It has no need to commit its 

® If you consider with any attention the baerpipe-players wlio perform the office 
of fiddlers in the rural districts in the centre of France, you will perceive that 
they do not know above two or three hundred compositions, all of tlie same 
style and character, which are however never borrowed the one from the other, 
and you will also ascertain that in less than three years this immense collection 
is entirely renewed. Not very long ago I had the following conversation with one 
of these Wandering musicians: — "You have learned a little music, have you 
not?” — "Certainly — I have learned to play the thorough-base-bagpipe, and the 
key-bagpipe.”— " Where did you take your lessons?” — “In the Bourbonnais, in 
the woods,” — "Who was your master?” — "A native of the woods.” — "Do you 
know' your notes ? ” — " I believe so.” — “ In what key do you play ? ” — " What key 1 
what does that mean?” — "Don’t you play in re?” — “I don’t know what you mean 
by IV.” — "What are the names of your notes ?”—" We call them NO'rss. They 
have no particular names.” — “How do you retain so many different airs?” — "By 
ear.” — “By whom are these airs composed?” — "By many persons, famous musi- 
cians of the woods.” — "Do they compose many?” — " They are always composing. 
They never cease from it.” — “Have they any other occupation?” — "They cut 
wood ” — “ Are they regular woodcutters? ” — " Almost all of them are woodcutters. 
They say among us that music grows in the woods. It is there we always find it.' 
—"And do you go to the woods in quest of it? ” — “Every year. Petty musician# 
do not go thither; they catch by ear whatever they hear on the roads and repeat it 
as well as they can. But to get the true accent one must go and listen to tho 


CONSUELO. 


252 

productions to record; for it produces them as it cultivates them, 
without pausing for repose; and it creates incessantly, as nature cre- 
ates, and from which he draws his inspiration. 

Consuelo’s heart abounded with all that candor, that poetic taste 
and highly wrought sensibility, which are essential to the comprehen- 
sion and ardent love of popular music. In that point she was a great 
artiste; and the learned theories which she had fathomed had de- 
tracted in nothing from her genius of that freshness and sweetness 
which constitute the treasure of inspiration and the youth of the 
soul. She had often told Anzoleto, without letting the Porpora know 
it, that she loved some of the barcarolles of the fishermen of the 
Adriatic better than all the science of Padre Martini and of Maestro 
Durante. The boleros and canticles of her mother had been to her 
the sources of her poetic life, whence she never was wearied of draw- 
ing even to their depth her beloved recollections. What impression, 
then, ought not the musical genius of Bohemia to have produced on 
her, the inspiration, a pastoral and warrior, and fanatical people, 
grave and gentle in the midst of the most puissant eleinents of energy 
and activity. Albert played this music with a rare comprehension of 
the national spirit, and of the energetic and pious sentiment which 
had given it birth. He added to it, in his improvisation, the deep 
melancholy and piercing regret which slavery had impressed on his 
own personal character, and on that of his people ; and that mixture 
of bravery and sadness, of enthusiasm and debasement, those hymns 
of gratitude blended with moans of distress, were the most perfect 
and deepest expositions of the feelings of unhappy Bohemia, of un- 
happy Albert. 

It has been truly said that the object of music is the awakening of 
emotions. No other art so sublimely can arouse human sentiments 
in the inmost heart of man. No other art can paint to the eyes of 
the soul the splendors of nature, the delights of contemplation, the 
character of nations, the tumult of their passions, and the languor of 
their sufferings, as music can. Regret, hope, terror, meditation, con- 
sternation, enthusiasm, faith, doubt, glory, tranquillity, all these and 

woodcutters of the Bonrbonnais.” — '‘And how do they get it?" — ‘‘It comes to 
them while walking in the woods, while returning to their houses at night, while 
reposing fn-m their toils on Sunday." — “And do you compose?" — “A little, but 
very rarely; and what I do is worth little or nothing. One must be born in the 
woods to compose, and I am from the plains. There is no one superior to myself 
in the accen^t, but as to invention, we know nothing about it, and it is better for 
us not to attempt it." 

I tried to get him to explain what he meant by the accent. He could not, how- 
over. make any hand of it. Perhaps because he understood it too well himself, and 
thought me incapable of understanding. He was young, grave, and dark-complex- 
ioned as a Calabrian Pifferaso, he travelled from village fete to village fete, playing 
all day, and slept but once in three nights, because he had to travel from eighteen 
to twenty-four miles before sunrise, in order to arrive at his next scene of opera- 
tions. But he seemed all the better for it — drank measures of wine sufficient to 
fuddle an ox. and never complained, like Sir Walter Scott’s Trumpeter, of having 
•ost his wind. The more he drank, the graver and the prouder he became He 
played admirably, and had good reason to be proud of his accent. We observed 
that his playing was a perpetual modification of each theme. It was impossible to 
write a single one of these themes without taking a notation for every one of fifty 
vna*ious versions. In this probably lay his merit and his art. His replies to my 
questions gave me a clue, I believe, to the true etymology of the word bourree, 
which is the terra they give to their provincial dances. Bourree is the usu.al name 
for a faggot, and the woodchoppers of the Bourbonnais have given that name to 
their musical compositions, even as Master Adam gave that of Chevilleb to his 
poetical composHions. 


CONSUELO. 


253 

more, are given to us and taken from us by music, at tlie suggestion 
of her genius, and according to the bent of our own. She even cre- 
ates the aspect of realities, and without falling into the childish pur 
suit of mere effects of sound, or into a narrow imitation of real 
noises, she makes us behold, through a vaporous veil, which aggran- 
dizes and renders divine all that is seen through it, the exterior objects 
whither she transports our imaginations. Some chaunts will cause 
the gigantic phantoms of antique cathedrals to rise before our eyes, at 
the same time that they will give us to penetrate into the inmost 
thoughts of the people who built them, and prostrated themselves 
within their walls in order to give utterance to their religious hymns. 
To him who knows to express powerfully and artlessly the music of 
divers peoples, and to him who knows to listen to it as it should be 
listened to, it will not need to encircle the world, to visit the different 
nations, to examine their monuments, to read their books, to traverse 
their upland plains, their mountains, their gardens, or their deserts. 
A Jewish chaunt, well given, sets us in the interior of the synagogue, 
and as every true Scottish air contains all Scotland, so is all Spain to 
be found in a true Spanish air. Thus, I have often been in Poland, 
in Germany, at Naples, in Ireland, in the Indies, and thus I know 
those men and those countries better than if I had examined them 
for so many years. It required but an instant to transport me to 
them, and to make me live with all that life which gives them anima- 
tion. It w'as the essence of that life which I assimilated to myself 
under the fascination of the music. 

By degrees Consuelo ceased to listen, ceased even to hear Albert’s 
violin. Her whole soul was attentive; and her senses, closed up 
against the reception of direct impressions, were awakened in another 
world, as if to guide her very being through unknown realms, peo- 
pled with new existences. She saw the spectres of the olden heroes 
of Bohemia moving to and fro in a strange chaos, at once horrible and 
magnificent; she heard the funereal tolling of the convent bells, 
when the dreadful Taborites rushed down from the summits of their 
fortified mountains, emaciated, half-naked, fierce and gory. Then she 
saw the angels of death assembled among the clouds with the sword 
and the chalice in their hands. Suspended in serried bands above 
the heads of prevaricating pontiffs, she saw them pour out on the ac- 
cursed land the cup of divine wrath. She fancied she could hear the 
flapping of their heavy wings, and the dripping of the blood of the 
Redeemer in heavy gouts behind them, extinguishing the conflagra- 
tion enkindled by their fury. At one time, it was a night of dread 
and darkness, through which she could hear the groans and the 
death-rattle of the trunks abandoned on the battle-field. At another, 
it was a scorching day, the heat of which she dared not encounter, 
through which she saw the terrible blind chief rush by like the thun- 
derbolt, in his scythed car, with his open casque, his rusty corselet, 
and the gory bandage covering his eyeless sockets. The temples of 
their own accord flew open to his coming; the monks fled into the 
entrails of the earth, carrying away and concealing their treasures 
and their relics in the skirts of their garments. Then the conquerors 
brought forward emaciated old men, beggars, covered with sores like 
Lazarus; madmen ran up to meet them, chanting and gibbering like 
Zdenko, executioners polluted with black gore; young children with 
pure liands and angelic faces; warrior-women carrying stacks of pikes 
and resinous torches, all took their seats about a table; and an angel 


C O N S U E L (). 


254 

radiant and beautiful as those whom Albeit Diirer lias painted in hia 
composition of the Apocalypse, offered to their parched lips the 
wooden goblet, the chalice of pardon, of restoration, and of holy 
equality. 

This angel reappeared in all the visions which at that time passed 
before the eyes of Consuelo. As she looked at him earnestly, she 
recognised him for Satan, the most beautiful of the immortals after 
the Father, the saddest after the Saviour, the proudest among the 
proud. He dragged after his steps the chains he had broken; and 
his bab-wings, all soiled an'd drooping, gave token of the sufferings 
and the captivity he had undergone. He smiled mournfully upon 
the crime-polluted men, and pressed the little children to his heart. 

On a sudden, it seemed to Consuelo that Albert’s violin was speak- 
ing, and that it spoke with the voice of Satan. “ No,” it said, “ my 
brother Christ loved you not better than I love you. It is time that 
you should know me, and that in lieu of calling me the enemy of the 
human race, you recover in me the friend who has aided you through 
the great struggle. I am not the demon. I am the archangel of le- 
gitimate resolution, and the patron of grand conflicts. Like Christ, I 
am the friend of the poor man, of the weak, and of him that is op- 
pressed. When he promised you the sign of God upon the earth — 
when he announced to you his return among you, he meant to say 
that, after having undergone persecution, you should be recojnpensed, 
by conquering liberty and happiness with me and with himself. It is 
together that we were to return, and it is together that we do return, so 
united one to the other, that we are no longer two, but one. It is he, 
the divine principle, the God of the Spirit, who descended into the 
darkness into which ignorance had cast you, and where I underwent, 
in the flames of passion and indignation, the same torments which 
the Scribes and Pharisees of all ages caused him to endure upon his 
cross. Lo! I am here with you forever, my children; for he has 
broken my chains — he has extinguished my funeral pyre — he has re- 
conciled me to God and to you. And henceforth craft and terror will 
no longer be the lawful inheritance of the weak, but independence 
and self-will. It is he — it is Jesus, who is the merciful, the tender, 
and the just. I am just also, but I am strong, warlike, stern, and 
persistent. O people ! dost thou not recognize him who hath spoken to 
thee in the secrecy of thy heart, since thou didst first exist, and who 
ill all thy troubles hath consoled thee, saying, ‘Seek, for pleasure. 
Eenounce it not. Happiness is thy due — demand it, and thou shalt 
have it. Dost thou not see on my brow all thy sufferings, and on my 
wounded limbs the scars of the fetters which thou hast borne? 
Drink of the chalice which I offer thee. Therein thou wilt find my 
tears, blended with thine and with those of Christ; thou wilt taste 
them as burning and as salubrious as those which he shed.’ ” 

That hallucination filled the heart of Consuelo with grief and pity 
blended. She fancied she could see and hear the disinherited angel 
weeping and groaning beside her. She saw him pale but beautiful, 
with his long tresses dishevelled about his tliunderstricken brow, 
but still proud, still gazing up to heaven. She admired him, while 
she yet shuddered through the odd habit of fearing him; and yet she 
loved him with that pious and fraternal love which is inspired by 
the sight of puissance in suffering. It seemed to her that from the 
midst of the Communion of the Bohemian fathers, it was she that he 
addressed ; that he addressed her with gentle reproaches for her dis- 


CONSUELO. 


256 


trust and terror; and that he attracted her toward him by a glance 
of magnetic influence, which she liad not the power to resist. Fas- 
cinated, without the power to restrain herself, she arose, she darted 
toward him with extended arms and trembling knees. Albert dropped 
his violin, which gave forth a plaintive s'^nnd as it fell, and received 
the girl in his arms, uttering a cry of surprise and delight. It was he 
to whom Consuelo had been listening, and at whom she had been 
looking, while she was pondering upon the rebellious angel. It was 
his face, similar to that which she had conjured up to herself, which 
had attracted and subjugated her; it was his heart against whicli she 
had pressed herself, saying in a stifled voice — “ To thee I to thee, 
angel of sorrow ! to thee, and to thy God for ever.” 

But scarcely had Albert's trembling lips touched her own, before 
she felt a cold and thrilling pain, chill by turns, and by turns enkindie 
her breast and her brain. Awakened suddenly from her illusion, ■ • 
experienced so violent a shock throughout the whole of her frame 
that she thought herself at the point of death, and tearing herself 
away from the arms of the count she fell against the bones of the 
altar, a portion of which gave way with her weight with a horrible 
noise. As she felt herself covered with these remnants of the human 
frame, and as she saw Albert, whom she had just clasped in her arms 
and lendered in some degree the mastei- of her soul and of her liberty 
in a moment of frenzied excitement, she underwent a pang of terror 
and anguish so horrible that she hid her face in her dishevelled hair, 
crying in a voice interrupted by sobs, — “ Hence! Hence! in the name 
of heaven, give me light and air. Oh, my God! take me from this 
sepulchre and restore me to the light of day.” 

Albert seeing her grow pale and toss her head, darted toward her, 
and endeavored to take her in his arms, in order to carry her out of 
the cavern ; but in her terror she did not understand him, and recov- 
ering herself with an effort from her fall, she took flight toward the 
further end of the cavern, recklessly and without taking heed of any 
obstacles, or of the sinuous channels of the stream which crossed and 
recrossed befoi’e her footsteps, and which in several places were very 
dangerous. “ In God’s name,” Albert exclaimed as she fled, not 
here — not this way— stop! stop! death is before your feet, wait until 
I come ! ” 

But his outcries only added to Consuelo’s fears. She leaped the 
rivulet twice with bounds as active as though a fawn, and without the 
slightest knowledge of what she was doing. At length she struck her 
foot in a dark spot planted with cypress trees, against an eminence of 
the soil, and fell with her hands outstretched before her, upon a piece 
of fresh lately dug ground. 

The slight shock altered the disposition of her nerves. A sort of 
stupefaction succeeded to her apprehensions, and panting, overpow- 
ered, and having no longer the lightest recollection of what had affect- 
ed her, she let the count overtake her and draw near to her side. He 
had rftshed away in pursuit of her, arul had the presence of mind to 
snatch up in haste, even as he ran by, one of the torches which were 
fixed among the rocks, in order that he might at least have the power 
of giving her light among the windings of the rivulet, in case he 
should not overtake her, until she had reached a portion of it. which 
he knew to be deep, and toward which she appeared to be making her 
way. 

Astonished and half stunned by motions so sudden and so contrary 


25G 


CONSUELO. 


in their effect, the young man did not presume either to address or tc 
lift her from the ground. She had seated herself on the mound of 
earth over which she had stumbled, and like himself was too timid tc 
say a word to him. Confused and shy, she sat gazing mechanically on 
the ground through her lowered eyelids before, the spot where she 
was seated. Suddenly she observed that the mound whereon she sat 
had the shape and dimensions of a tomb, and that she was actually 
seated on a grave, which had been but recently filled up, and which 
was strewn with cypress boughs scarcely yet withered, and flowers not 
quite faded. She started to lier feet in haste, and in a new fit of ter- 
ror which she could not subdue, exclaimed, “ Oh, Albert, whom have 
you buried here? ” 

“I have buried here,” replied Albert, unable to conceal an emotion 
of anguish, “ that which the world contained the most dear to me be- 
fore I made your acquaintance. If it was a sacrilege, inasmuch as I 
committed it in the idea that I was fulfilling a sacred duty, and at a 
moment when I was almost delirious, God will pardon me for it. I 
will tell you in some future time whose body it is that rests here. 
But at this moment your feelings are too much excited to bear the re- 
cital, and you want to be once more in the open air. Cornei, Consuelo, 
let us leave this spot in which, within a single moment, you have 
made me the happiest and the most unhappy of men.” 

“ Oh yes,” she replied, “ let us go hence. I know not what exhala- 
tions arise here from the bosom of the ground, but I feel that I am 
dying of them, and that ray reason is forsaking me.” 

They issued forth together, without exchanging a w’ord farther. 
Albert walked in front, stopping and lowering his torch at every stone 
they encountered, in order that his companion might see and avoid it. 
But when he was about to open the door of the cell a recollection far 
removed, as it would seem, from the bent of her mind at that moment, 
but w’hich was connected with her artistical propensities, was awak- 
ened in the mind of Consuelo. 

‘‘ Albert,” said she, “ you have forgotten your violin, near the spring. 
That wonderful instrument, which aroused in me emotions of which 
until this day I have been ignorant, shall never with rny consent be 
delivered up to certain destruction in that humid place.” 

Albert made a gesture which was intended to convey to her that 
there was now nothing on earth with the exception of herself which 
was of any value in his eyes. But she persisted, saying, “ It has 
caused me much pain, and yet ” 

“ If it has only given you pain,” he replied bitterly, “ let it perish. 
I will never touch it again while I live. Oh ! I care not how soon it 
is ruined.” 

“ I should speak falsely w’ere I to say so,” answered Consuelo, recov- 
ering her feelings of respect toward Bie musical genius of the count. 
“The emotion was greater than I could bear, and enchantment was 
turned to agony. Go, ray friend, bring it thence. I will replace it 
with rny own hands in its casket, until I i-ecover courage to bring it 
forth, replace it in your hands, and listen to it once agairr.” 

Consuelo was touched by the expression of gi-atitude which the 
count’s featui'es assumed as he received that permission to hope. He 
returned into the cavern in order to obey her, and thus left to herself 
for a few minutes, she began to reproach herself with her w’eak terrors 
and her groundless though horrible suspicions. She recollected trem- 
bling and blushing as it recurred to her, how in that fit of feverish 


C O N S U E L O. 


257 


delirium she had cast herself into his arms ; but she could not help 
admiring the modest and chaste timidity of that man who adored her, 
and who yet had not availed himself of that opportunity to address 
her with a single word of love. The sorrow which she observed in all 
his features, the languid and disheartened demeanor which he bore, 
told her that he had conceived no presumptuous hope either for the 
present or the future. She gave him credit for so much delicacy of 
heart, and determined to soften by kinder words than she had yet used, 
the bitterness of the farewell which she was about to take of him on 
their leaving the cavern. 

But the recollection of Zdenko seemed to pursue like a vengeful 
phantom to the very last, and to accuse Albert in spite even of 
herself. 

As she drew near to the door her eyes fell on an inscription in Bo- 
hemian, the whole of which with the exception of a single word, she 
easily understood, inasmuch as she knew it by heart. A hand, which 
could be no other than that of Zdenko, had traced on the black and 
gloomy portals these words in chalk — “ May He who has been 
wronged grant thee — ” 

What followed was incomprehensible to Consuelo, and that circum- 
stance caused her acute uneasiness. Albert returned and replaced 
his violin in the case, without her having the power to assist him as 
she had promised to do. She again felt all the impatience to quit the 
cavern which she had experienced at first. When he turned the key in 
the rusty lock, she could not refrain from laying her finger on the 
mj'sterious word, and turning a glance of interrogation upon him. 

“ That signifies,” replied Albert, answering her look with a sort of 
strange calmness, “ May the Angel, who has ever been misunderstood, 
the friend of the unhappy, he, Consuelo, of whom we spoke but now.” 

“ Yes, Satan, I know that; and the rest — ? ” 

“ May Satan, I say, grant thee pardon ! ” 

“ Pardon for what? ” she asked, turning pale as she spoke. 

“ If suffering deserves pardon,” answered the count with melan 
iholy calmness, “ I have a long prayer to offer.” 

They entered the gallery, and did not again break silence until they 
had reached the people’s cavern. But when the light of day from 
wdthout began to fall with its bluish tints on the face of the count, 
Consuelo saw that two streams of tears were flowing silently down 
his cheeks. She was deeply affected, and when he drew nigh with a 
timid air to carry her across the outlet of the stream, she preferred 
wetting her feet in that brackish water to allowing him to lift her in 
bis arms. She excused herself on the ground of the languor and wea- 
riness which he seemed to experience, and was already on the point 
of dipping her slipper in the mud when Albert said, extinguishing the 
torch as he spoke — 

“ Fare you well, then, Consuelo. I see by the aversion you mani- 
fest toward me that 1 must return into everlasting night; and like a 
ghost, evoked by you for one brief moment, return to my tomb, hav- 
ing succeeded in terrifying you only.” 

“ No. Your life belongs to me,” cried Consuelo, turning round and 
staying him. “ You swore to me that you would never re-enter that 
cavern except in my company, and you have no right to take back 
your oath.” 

“And wherefore would you impose the burthen of human life on 
the mere phantom of a man. He who is alone but the shadow of a 
16 


268 


C O N S U E L O. 


mortal, and he who is loved of none, is alone everywhere, and with 
all men.” 

“ Albert, Albert, you rend my heart. Come, carry me forth. 1 
fancy, that in the full light of day, 1 shall clearly perceive my own 
destinies.” 


CHAPTER LVI. 

Albert obeyed her; and when they had begun to make their way 
downward from the base of the Schreckenstein into the lower vallies, 
Consuelo indeed felt that the agitation she had experrenced was pass- 
ing away. “Pardon me;” she said, “pardon me for the pain 1 have 
given you;” as she leaned gently on his arm and walked forward. 
“ It is very certain I myself was attacked by a fit of frenzy in the 
cavern .” 

“ Why recall it to your mind, Consuelo ? I should never have 
spoken of it, not I. I well know that you would fain efface it from 
your memory. I must also endeavor to forget it.” 

“ My friend, I do not desire to fon^et it, but to ask your pardon for 
it. If I were to tell you the strange vision which came over me as I 
listened to your Bohemian airs, you would see that I was indeed out 
of my senses when I gave you such a shock of surpi ise and alarm. 
You cannot believe that I wished to disturb your reason and your 
peace of mind for any pleasure. Oh, God ! Heaven is my witness, 
that even now I would gladly give my life for you.” 

“ I know that you place no inestimable value on life, Consuelo. 
And I know that I should cling to life with the utmost avidity, if—** 

“If— what? Proceed.” 

“ If I were loved, as I love.” 

“ Albert, I love you as much as it is permitted me to love. 1 
should love you, doubtless, as you deserve to be loved, if ” 

“ If— what? It is your turn now to proceed.” 

“ If insurmountable obstacles did not render it a crime in me to do 
so.” 

“ And what are these obstacles? I seek for them in vain as they 
exist around you. I can find them only in the recesses of your own 
heart — in your recollections — where they doubtless have a real 
being.” 

“ Speak not of my recollections. They are detestable to me ; and 
far rather would I die than live again, the yeais that are passed by. 
But your rank in the world, your fortune, the opposition and indigna- 
tion of your parents, — where do you suppose I can find courage to 
face all that? I possess nothing in the world but my pride and my 
disinterestedness; and what would remain to me, were I to sacrifice 
these?” 

“ My love would remain to you, and your own also, if you loved me. 
I feel that this is not so; and I will but ask of you a little pity. How 
can it be that you should feel humiliated by granting me a litfje hap- 
piness as it were an alms? Which of us is it that would so fall pros- 
trate before the knees of the other? In what respect should my for- 
tune degrade you? Could we not speedily distribute it among the 
poor, if it should prove as wearisome to you as it does to me ? I)o 


CONS U E E (). 


259 


you not believe that I have long since resolved to employ it, as it 
should seem good to my tastes, or my ideas of right; in other words, 
to rid myself of it, as soon as the death of my father shall add the 
pain of inheriting wealth to the pain of separation ? What then ? 
Do you fear to be rich ? Lo ! I have vowed myself to poverty. Do 
you fear to be ennobled by ray name? My name is an assumed one, 
and my true name is proscribed. I will never re-assume it. To do so 
would be to injure the memory of my father. But in the obscurity in 
which I shall bury myself, no one shall be dazzled by it, I swear to 
you; and you will not have the power to reproach me with it. To 
conclude. As to the opposition of ray parents — oh ! if there were no 
obstacle but that — only tell me that there is no other, and you shall 
see the result.” 

“It is the greatest of them all — the only one which all ray devotion, 
all my gratitude to you, would not allow me to conquer.” 

“You are deceiving me, Consuelo. Sw'ear that this is the only ob- 
stacle — you dare not swear that you are not deceiving me.” 

Consuelo hesitated. She had never told a falsehood ; and yet she 
now desired to make reparation to her friend for the pain she had given 
him — him who had saved her life, and watched over her during sev- 
eral months with all the anxiety of a tender and intelligent mother. 
She flattered herself that she was taking away the sting of lier refusal 
by framing obstacles, which she did, in truth, believe to be insurmount- 
able. But Albert’s reiterated questions confused her, and her own 
heart was a labyrinth, in the mazes of which she actually lost her way; 
for she could not say with certainty whether she loved or hated this 
strange man, toward whom a potent and mysterious sympathy had im- 
pelled her, while an invincible apprehension, and something that close- 
ly resembled aversion, made her tremble even now at the idea of an 
engagement. 

It seemed to her, at that moment, that she actually hated Anzoleto. 
Could it be otherwise, when she compared him with his brutal selfish- 
ness, his abject ambition, his cowardice, and his perfidy; with this Al- 
bert, so generous, so humane, so pure, and so greatly endowed with all 
the loftiest and most romantic virtues? The only cloud which could 
overshadow her judgment concerning this parallel, was the attempt 
on the life of Zdenko, with which she could not help charging him. 
And yet was not this very suspicion a disease of her imagination, a moral 
nightmare which the ejtplanation of a moment might snflice to set at 
rest? She resolved to make the experiment, and pretending to be ab- 
sent and not to have understood Albert’s last question, “My God! ’• 
she cried, as she stopped to gaze at a peasant who was passing by at 
some distance, “ I thought I saw Zdenko.” 

Albert shuddered, dropped Consuelo’s arm, which he had been hold- 
ing, and advanced a few paces ; then he stopped abruptly and turned 
back. “How strange an error is this, Consuelo? — That man has not 

a single feature of resemblance to ” he could not bring himself to 

utter the name of Zdenko, and his face was entirely changed as he 
spoke. 

“You nevertheless thought it was he yourself, an instant ago,” 
said Consuelo, wdio w'as watching him keenly. 

“I am extremely short-sighted, and I ought to have remembered 
that such a meeting were impossible.” 

“ Impossible! Is Zdenko, then, very far distant hence?” 

“ Sufficiently distant, that you have no more need to dread his mad- 
ness.” 


260 


OONSUELO, 


“ Can you not explain to me the origin of his sudden hatred to me, 
after the evidences of sympathy which he gave me at first? ” 

“ I told you that it is the consequence of a dream that he had on 
the eve of your descent into the cavern. He saw you in his dream 
following me to the altar, at which you consented, as he imagined, to 
plight me your faith, and there you began to sing our old Bohemian 
hymns in a voice so powerful that it made the whole church tremble. 
Then while you were singing, he saw me turn pale, and sink through 
the pavement of the church, until I was wholly swallowed up, and 
lay dead in the sepulchre of my ancestors. Then he saw you hastily 
throw off your bridal wreath, push a flagstone with your foot so that 
it instantly covered me, and then dance upon that funereal slab, 
singing incomprehensible words in an unknown tongue, with all the 
symptoms of the most immoderate and cruel joy. Full of frenzy, he 
threw himself upon you, but you had already vanished away in 
smoke, and he awoke bathed in sweat and frantic with passion. He 
even awoke me, for his cries and imprecations made the whole vault 
of the cell ring and re-echo. I had much trouble in inducing him to 
relate his dream to me, and yet greater diflBculty in preventing him 
from believing that he could perceive in it the real course of my fu- 
ture destiny. It was by no means an easy task to convince him ; for I 
was myself under the influence of a sort of sickly excitement of my 
spirits, and I had never before attempted to dissuade him from repos- 
ing faith in his dreams and visions. Nevertheless, I thought that I 
had succeeded ; for during the day which followed that wild and per- 
turbed night, he seemed to retain no recollection of it, for he made 
no allusion to it; and when I requested him to go and speak with you 
of me, he made no objection. He thought you had never even en- 
tertained an idea of coming to seek me where I then was, and that 
there was no possibility of doing so, nor did his delirium break forth 
again until he saw you undertake it. At least he did not allow me to 
discover his hatred toward you until he met us together on our return 
through the subterranean galleries. Then he told me laconically, in 
the Bohemian language, his intention and firm determination to de- 
liver me from you — for it is so that he expressed himself— and to de- 
stroy you the first time he should meet you alone; because you were 
the scourge of my life, and because he could read my death written 
in your eyes. Pardon me for repeating these last outpourings of his 
madness, and understand now wherefore it was necessary for me to re- 
move him, both from you and myself. Let us speak of this no more, 
I implore you; it is too painful a subject of conversation. I loved 
Zdenko as a second self. His madness had assimilated itself and 
identified itself with my own, to such a degree that our thoughts, our 
visions, nay, but even our own physical sufferings had become spon- 
taneously the same. He was, moreover, simpler and more artless, and 
by so much more a poet than myself; his temperament was more 
equable, and the visions which I beheld hideous and menacing, became 
gentle and mournful, as apprehended by the organization of his mind, 
tenderer, and more serene than mine. The great difference between 
us was the irregular occurrence of my seizures, and the continuous 
character of his frenzy. While I was at one time a prey to fierce de- 
lirium, or a cold and astounded spectator of my own misery, he lived 
in a sort of continual dream, during which all external objects 
assumed a symbolical form, and this species of hallucination was 
always so gentle and affectionate, that in my lucid intervals — which 


CONSUELO. 


261 

were of a surety the most painful hours of my life— I felt an actual 
need of the peaceful and ingenuous aberrations of Zdenko to reani- 
mate me and reconcile me to life.” 

“ Oh, my friend,” said Consuelo, “ you ought to hate me, and I 
hate myself for having deprived you of a friend so dear and so devo- 
ted. But has not his exile lasted long enough? By this time may 
he not be cured of a mere passing fit of violence, which — ” 

“ He is cured of it probably interrupted Albert, with a strange 
and bitter smile. 

“ Well then,” continued Consuelo, who was anxious to divest herself 
of the idea of his death, “ Why do you not recall him? I assure you, 
I shall see him again without any apprehension, and together we shall 
easily bring him to lay aside his prejudices against me.” 

“ Do not talk thus, Consuelo,” said Albert, dejectedly. “ His return 
is henceforth impossible. I have sacrificed my best friend, him who 
was my companion, my attendant, my support, my artless, ignorant, 
and obedient child, my solicitous and laborious mother, the purveyor 
of all my wants, of all my innocent and melancholy pleasures — him 
who defended me against myself during my fits of despair, and who 
employed both strength and stratagem to prevent me from quitting 
my ceil, when he saw me incapable of maintaining my own dignity, 
and my own course of life in the world of the living, and in the soci- 
ety of other men. I made that sacrifice without retrospect and with- 
out remorse, because it was my duty so to do. Because in encounter- 
ing the perils of the cavern, in restoring to my reason and the percep- 
tion of my duties, you were become more precious, more sacred to me 
than Zdenko himself.” 

“ This is an error — this is almost a blasphemy, Albert! The cour- 
age of one moment must not be compared with the devotion of a 
life.” 

“ Do not imagine that a selfish and savage passion prevailed with 
me to act as I have acted. I should have well known how to stifle 
such a passion in my own breast, and to have locked myself up in my 
cavern with Zdenko, rather than break the heart and destroy the life 
of the best of men. But the voice of God had spoken to me distinct- 
ly. I had resisted the fascination which was overpowering me. I 
had avoided you; I had determined to abstain from seeing you, so 
long as the dreams and presentiments, which led me to hope that in 
you" I should find the angel of my safety, should not be fulfilled, until 
the frenzy into which a lying dream cast Zdenko, disturbing the whole 
tenor of his pious and gentle organization, he shared all my aspira- 
tions. all my fears, all my hopes, all my religious desires concerning 
you. The unhappy being misconceived you on the very day in which 
you were revealing yourself. The celestial light which had always 
illuminated the mysterious regions of his spirit was suddenly extin- 
guished, and God condemned him by sending upon him the spirit of 
frenzy and of fury. It was my duty, therefore, also to abandon him; 
for you had appeared to me more wrapped in a blaze of glory; you 
had descended toward me, upborne on wings, as if a prodigy, and you 
had the command of words, for the unsealing of rny eyes, which your 
calm intellect and artistical education rendered it impossible for you 
to have studied or prepared. Pity and charity inspired you, and un- 
der their miraculous influence you spoke to me words, whi<;h it was 
necessary for me to comprehend, in order to conceive and understand 
the truth of human life.” 


262 


CONSUELO. 


“ And what did I ever speak to you so forcible and so wise? Of a 
truth, Albert, I have no idea of it.” 

“ Nor I, myself. But it seemed to me that God himself dwelt in the 
sound of your voice and in the serenity of your gaze. By your side I 
understood in one instant, all that, if alone, I should never have com- 
prehended in my whole life. I knew before that time that my life 
was an expiation, martyrdom, and I sought out the accomplishment 
of my destiny in darkness, in solitude, in tears, in indignation, in 
study, in asceticism, in macerations. You presented to my sight a 
diiferent life, a different martyrdom; one of patience, of gentleness, 
of endurance, of devotion. The duties which you explained to me so 
artlessly and simply, beginning with those which I owed my family, 
had all been forgotten by me; and my family, in the excess of its 
goodness, htid suffered me to overlook my own crimes. I have re- 
paired them, thanks to you; and from the first day of my doing so, 1 
knew, by the calmness which reigned within me, that I had done all 
that God required at my hands for the present. I know that I have 
not done all: but I expect fresh revelations from God as to the re- 
mainder of my existence ; but I have now all confidence, since' I have 
discovered the oracle which I can henceforth consult. It is you,Cori- 
suelo ! Providence has given you power over me, and I will not revolt 
against His decrees, by endeavoring to escape from it. I ought not 
then to hesitate an instant between the superior power invested with 
the capacity of regenerating me, and the poor passive creature, who 
up to that time had only shared my distresses and bowed before my 
storms of frenzy.” 

“ You speak of Zdenko ? But how know you that God has not pre- 
destined me to cure him also? You must have seen that 1 had al- 
ready gained some power over him, since I succeeded in convincing 
him by a single word, when his hand was already raised to kill me.” 

“ O my God ! it is true. I have broken faith ; I was afraid ; I knew 
the oaths of Zdenko. He had sworn to me, contrary to my wishes, to 
live for me alone, and he kept his oath ever since I have been alive, 
in my absence just as before, and since my return. When he swore 
that he would destroy you, I did not once conceive that it was possi- 
ble to prevent him from carrying out his resolution, and I took the 
plan of offending him, of banishing him, of breaking his spirit, and 
of destroy ing hi in.” 

“ Of destroying him — my God ! What does that word signify in your 
mouth, Albert ? Where, then, is Zdenko ? ” 

“ You ask me, as God asked Cain, ‘ What hast thou done with thy 
brothel ? ’ ” 

“ Oh ! heaven ! heaven ! you have not killed him, Albert ! ” Consu- 
elo, as she suffered that terrible word to escape her lips, clung with 
tenacious energy to Albert’s arm, and gazed at him with terror, min- 
gled with painful pity. She recoiled from the cold and haughty 
aspect which that pale face assumed, in the expression of which 
agony seemed to be actually petrified. 

“ I have not killed him,” he made answer, “ and yet I have, of a 
surety, taken his life from him. Will you dare to impute it to me as 
a crime; you for whom I would perhaps kill my father in the same 
manner; you for whom I would brave all remorse, and break all the 
dearest ties, all the most cherished realities? If I have preferred 
the regret and repentance which devour me, to the fear of seeing you 
assassinated by a madman, have you so little pity in your heart as to 


C O N S U E L O. 


263 

hold that remorse perpetually up to my eyes, and to reproach me 
with the greatest sacrifice I have ever been enabled to make to you? 
Ab, you also! you also have your moments of crueltj'. Cruelty can- 
not be extinguished in the heart of any single being who is one of 
the human race.” 

There was so much solemnity in this reproach, which was the first 
that Albert ever had dared to make to Consuelo, that she was deeply 
alarmed, and felt — more keenly than it had ever befaiUm her to feel 
it before — how great was the terror with which be inspired her. A 
sort of humiliation which, though, perhaps, childish, is nevertheless 
inherent in the heart of woman, succeeded to the sweet sense of pride 
against which she had vainly striven, as she heard Albert describe the 
passionate veneration with which she had inspired him. She felt 
herself debased, and, misunderstood then, beyond a doubt; for she 
had not sought to penetrate his secret without a dii-ect intention of 
doing so, or at least without a desire of responding to his love, should 
he succeed in justifying himself. At the same time, she saw that she 
was herself the guilty in the eyes of her lover; for if he had killed 
Zdenko, the only person in the world who had no right to condemn 
him irrevocably for the deed, was she whose life had required, at the 
hands of the unhappy Albert, the sacrifice of another life, which 
under other circumstances, would have been infinitely precious to 
him. 

Consuelo had not a word to reply. She would fain have spoken of 
some other topic, but her tears cut short her speech. Albert, now 
repentant, would have humiliated himself in his turn, hut she im- 
plored him to speak no more on a subject so appalling to his spirit, 
and promised him in a sort of bitter satisfaction never again to pro- 
nounce a name which awakened in herself no less than in him, emo- 
tions so fearful. The rest of their walk was darkened by constraint 
and piercing anguish. They vainly endeavored to hit upon some 
other topic. Consuelo knew neither what she was saying nor to 
what she was listening. Albert, on the contrai-y, appeared calm as 
Abraham or Brutus after the performance of the sacrifices etiforced 
upon them by stern destinies. That mournful tranquillity, deeply 
rooted, and weighing upon the breast with something of the weight 
of madness, was not without some resemblance to a lingering rem- 
nant of that disease, and Consuelo could only justify her friend to her 
own mind by remembering that he was a madman. If in an open 
conflict of strength against strength he had slain his adversary, in an 
attempt to save hei% she would have discovered in the deed only a 
newer cause for gratitude, perhaps for admiration of his vigor and 
courage. But this mysterious murder, committed, doubtless, amid 
the darkness of the cavern ; this tomb hollowed out in the very place 
of holy prayer; and this ferocious silence after an incident so horri- 
ble; this stoical fanaticism with which he had dared to lead her into 
the cavern, and there to deliver himself up to the charms and ecsta- 
cies of music, all this was too horrible, and Consuelo felt that the love 
of such a man could never penetrate her heart. Then she began to 
ask herself at what tinne he could have committed this murder. “I 
have never seen,”' she said to herself, “during these three months, so 
deep a frown on; his forehead, that I should attribute it to remorse! 
and yet had he not one day some drops of blood on his hand, when I 
would have offered mine to him. Oh! horror! horror! He must be 
either of ice or marble, or he must love me with ferocity ; and I— -I 


264 


C O N S U E L O. 


who desired to be the object of an illimitable passion — I, who regret- 
ted that I had been but so feebly loved — I then have received from 
heaven siich^ a love as this for a compensation.” 

Then she began once more to consider at what moment Albert 
could have performed his horrible sacrifice, and she began to imagine 
that it must have been during the time when her terrible malady did 
not permit her to take the slightest notice of external events. Then 
again when she called to mind the delicate and tender attentions 
which Albert had lavished on her, she could not reconcile the two 
several phases of this man’s character, who was at once so different 
from himself and from other men. 

Absorbed in these painful musings, she received the flowers which 
Albert, knowing that she was very fond of them, was wont to gather 
for her as they walked along; but it was with a trembling hand and 
an abstracted mind that she received them. She did not even think 
to leave him so as to enter the chateau alone, and suffer it to appear 
that they had not been so together tete-a-tete. Whether it so ha|> 
pened that Albert thought of it no more than she, or that* he was de- 
termined to carry on his deception with his family no longer, he did 
not remind her of it, so that at the entrance of the chateau, they 
found themselves face to face with the canoness. Consuelo, and 
probably Albert also, now for the first time saw the features of this 
woman, whose goodness of heart, for the most part, concealed her 
ugliness, despite her leanness and deformity, kindled by anger and 
disdain. 

“ It is, indeed, time that you should return home. Mademoiselle,” 
said she to La Poi-porina, in tones trembling and broken with agita- 
tion. “ We were greatly alarmed concerning Count Albert. His 
father, who has not chosen to breakfast without him, was anxious to 
have a conversation with him this morning, which you have thought 
pioper to forget. And as regards yourself, there is a slight young 
man in the drawing-room, who calls himself your brother^ and who 
is waiting for you with more impatience than politeness.” 

And with these singular words, poor Wenceslawa, alarmed at her 
own courage, turned her back abruptly, and ran to her room, where 
she wept and coughed for above an hour. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

“ My aunt is in a strange mood,” said Albert to Consuelo, as they 
ascended the steps leading to the terrace. “ I ask your pardon in her 
behalf, dear lady ; be sure that this very day she will change both her 
manners and language toward you.” 

“My brother!” cried Consuelo, astonished at the message which 
had been delivered to her, and not hearing what the Count had said. 

“ I did not know that you had a brother,” said Albert, who had paid 
more attention to his aunt’s ill temper than to that event. “Un- 
doubtedly it will be a pleasure to you to see him, dear Consuelo, and 
I am rejoiced ” 

“Rejoice not. Monsieur Le Count,” said Consuelo, of whom a sad 
presentiment was rapidly taking possession. “ Perhaps it is a great 


0 () N S U E L (). 


265 


calamity which is at this moment preparing for me, and I — ” sho 
stopped trembling and disturbed, for she had been on the point of 
asking liis advice and protection, but she feared to connect herself 
with ium too closely, and scarcely knowing whether to receive or to 
avoid one who introduced himself to her presence through the medi- 
um of a lie; she felt her limbs yielding under her, and turning very 
pale, clung to the balustrades on the last step of the terrace stair. 

“ Do you apprehend some painful intelligence from your family?” 
asked Albert, who was beginning to grow uneasy. 

I have no family,” replied Consuelo, compelling herself to pro- 
ceed. She was on the point of saying “ I have no brother,” but a 
vague apprehension prevented her from doing so. But as she crossed 
the dining-room, she heard the boot of the traveller creaking on the 
drawing-room carpet, as he walked to and fro impatiently. With an 
involuntary movement she drew nearer to the young count, and 
pressed his arm, entwining her own around it, as if to take refuge in 
his love from the sufferings whose approach she foresaw. 

Albert, as he perceived the movement, felt all his mortal apprehen 
sions awakening anew. “Do not go in without me,” he whispered 
“ I divine some presentiments which never have deceived me, that 
this brother is your enemy and mine. lam chilled to the heart; I 
am terrified ; as if I were about to be compelled to hate some one.” 

Consuelo disengaged the arm which Albert held tightly clasped to 
his bosom. She trembled at the idea that he was about to conceive 
one of those singular notions, one of those implacable conclusions, 
of which the supposed death of Zdenko had given her so frightful an 
example. “ Let us separate here,” she said, speaking in German, for 
what was said could be heard in the adjoining room. “I have noth- 
ing to fear at this time, but if in future any peril should threaten me, 
count upon me, Albert, I will apply to you.” 

Albert yielded with visible reluctance. But, fearing to offend her 
delicacy, he did not dare to disobey her; still he could not resolve to 
leave the dining-room, and Consuelo, who understood his hesitation, 
closed the double doors of the drawing-room behind her, in order that 
he might neither hear or see what should pass therein. 

Anzoleto, for it was he, as she had but too surely divined through 
his audacity, and too well i-ecognised by the sound of his footsteps, 
had prepai-ed himself to meet her impudently with a fraternal em- 
brace on her entrance in the presence of witnesses. But when he 
saw her enter alone, pallid, indeed, but cold and stern, he lost all his 
courage, and cast himself stammering before her feet. He had no oc- 
casioii^ to feign tenderness or joy, for he really felt the two sentiments 
on seeing her once again whom he had never ceased to love amid all 
his treasons. He burst into tears, and as she w’ould not let him take 
her hands, he covered the skirts of her raiment with tears and kisses. 
Cojisuelo had not looked to find him thus. During four months she 
had tliought of him continually as he had showed himself on the 
night of their rupture, bitter, ironical, despicable and hateful above all 
men. That very morning she had seen him pass by, with an insolent 
deportment and an air of recklessness which was all but impudent; 
and now he was on his knees, humbled, repentant, bathed in tears, 
as in the stormiest days of their passionate reconciliations. Hand- 
somer than ever, for his simple travelling costiune, which, though 
rude, became him well; his fine features hacl gained a more mascidine 
character, from the exposure to the weather on his road. 


266 


C N S U E \. O. 


Panting like the dove which is already in the falcon's grasp, she was 
compelled to seat herself, and bury her face in her hands, in order to 
shield herself from the tiiscination of his gaze. This movement, 
which Anzoleto took for one of shame, encouraged him; and the 
return of evil thoughts soon destroyed the favorable impression made 
by his first transports. Anzoleto, when he fled from Venice, and 
from the mortifications he had experienced as the punishment of liis 
faults, had but one idea, that, namely, of seeking his fortunes. But 
at the same time he liad never abandoned either the desire or the 
hope of recovering his beloved Consuelo. Talents so dazzling as 
hers could not, he thought, long continue hidden, and in no place did 
he neglect to inquire for her, by inducing the inn-keepers, the guides, 
and such chance-travellers as he met, to enter into conversation. 
At Vienna he had become acquainted with many persons of distinc- 
tion of his own country, to whom he confessed the outrageous blun- 
der of which he had been guilty, and his flight from Venice. They 
had all advised him to go yet farther from Venice, and to wait 
patiently until Count Zustiniani should have either forgotten or par- 
doned his escapade, and promising to interest themselves in his be- 
half, ijad given him letters of recommendation to Prague, Dresden, 
and Berlin. As he passed before the Giant’s Castle, Anzoleto had 
not thought of questioning his guide; but after an hour’s rapid trav- 
elling. having checked his pace a little in order to permit his horses 
to recover their breath, he had resumed the conversation, asking him 
various questions concerning the country and its inhabitants. The 
guide had naturally spoken to him of the lords of Rudolstadt, of 
their mode of life, of Albert’s extravagances, and of his madness, 
which was no longer a secret to anybody, especially since the hatred 
which Doctor Wetzelius had so earnestly sworn against him. The 
guide, however, liad riot failed, in order fidly to complete his scandal- 
ous chronicles of the province, to tell him how Count Albert had put 
the cope-stone on all his extravagances, by refusing to marry his noble 
cousin, the beautiful Baroness Amelia, of Rudolstadt, having entan- 
gled himself with an adventuress who was merely good-looking, but 
with whom the whole world fell in love as soon as they heard her 
sing, on account of the exceeding beauty of her voice. 

These two circumstances were so wonderfully applicable to Consu- 
elo, that our traveller lost not a moment before enquiring her 
name, and as soon as he lieard that she was called La Porporina, he 
no longer doubted the truth. He immediately retraced his steps, and 
after having hastily stricken out the title and pretext under which he 
might hope to introduce himself into a castle so well guarded, he pro- 
ceeded to extract some farther reports of bad repute from his guide. The 
gossip (if this man had led him to receive it as a certain fact that Consu- 
elo was the young count's mistress, awaiting the time when she should 
become his wife; for she had bewitched, as he said, the whole family; 
and instead of sending her off, as she deserved, they paid her moVe 
attention, and lavished more cares upon her than they had ever done 
with the Baroness Amelia. This narrative exciteci Anzoleto yet 
more, if possible, than his real attachment to Consuelo. He had con- 
stantly sighed for the restoration of the life which she had rendered 
so delici(-)ns to him. He had long been thoroughly aware that in los- 
ing her advice and her directions, lie had lost, or at the least, compro- 
mised, for many a day to come, his musical reputation; and more 
than all, he was still forcibly attracted to her by a love at once selfish 


CONSUELO. 


267 

deep, and invincible. But to all this was added the vain-glorious 
temptation of disputing the possession of Consuelo with a rich and 
noble lover; of tearing her from a brilliant marriage, and causing it to 
be said that this girl, who was so nobly provided for, had preferred 
following his adventures to becoming a countess, and a chatelaine. 
He amused himself, therefore, with making his guide repeat that the 
Porporina reigned as absolute sovereign at Riesenberg, and delighted 
himself with the puerile idea of leaving it for that man to tell there- 
after to all the travellers whom he should guide, that a handsome 
youth, passing by accident, had ridden rough-shod into the inhospita- 
ble Castle of the Giants, and had but to Comk, See and Conquer, 
in order, at the end of a few hours, or days, more or less, to carry off 
the pearl of songstresses from the very high, and very puissant lord, 
the Count of Rudolstadt. 

At that idea he plunged his rowels into his horse’s sides, and laughed 
until his guide believed that the madder of the two was not the Count 
Albert. 

The canoness received him with distrust, but dared not actually eject 
him, on account of the hope she entertained that he might perhaps 
carry away with him his pretended sister. He learned of her that Con- 
suelo was out walking, and was sulky at hearing it. Breakfast was 
served to him, and he questioned the servants; and one of them, who 
alone understood a few words of Italian, thought there could be no 
harm in telling him that he had seen the signora on the mountain with 
the young count. Anzoleto had feared that on their first meeting he 
should find Consuelo haughty and distant. He had said to himself 
that if as yet she were but the honorably betrothed of the eldest son 
of the family she would wear the proud bearing of one confident of her 
own position ; but if she were already his mistress she would be less 
sure of her standing, and would tremble before an old friend who might 
have it in his power to disarrange all her plans. If innocent, her con- 
quest would be the prouder feat: if she were already corrupted, it 
would be otherwise in that respect, but in neither case would there be 
any reason to despair. 

Anzoleto was too shrewd not to discover the uneasiness and ill- 
humor with which the long excursion of Porporina and her nephew ap- 
peared to affect the Canoness, and, as he did not see Count Christian, 
it was an easy matter for him to disbelieve the guide, and to fancy that 
the family were indisposed and hostile to the union of the young Count 
with the adventuress, and that she would smile abashed in the presence 
of her first lover. 

After awaiting her four weary hours, Anzoleto, who had the time 
for much consideration, and whose morals were not pure enough to 
augur well of such a circumstance, looked on it as certain that so long 
an interview between Consuelo and his rival, argued an intimacy 
without any limit. He was therefore the more daring, the more reso- 
lute in his determination to wait for her, without suffering himself to 
be repulsed ; and after the first irresistible fit of tenderness, with 
which he was plunged by her first glance, he believed himself safe in 
daring all things so soon as he had seen that she was overcome, and 
that she sank conquered ,by the violence of her emotions upon the 
nearest chair. His tongue therefore speedily broke its bonds. He 
accused himself of all that had occurred, he humbled himself hypo- 
critically, wept as much as he chose, related his remorse and his tor- 
ments, painting both more romantically than the disgusting interludes 


268 


CONSUELO. 


between them had allowed him really to feel them, and in conclusion 
implored her pardon, with all the eloquence of a Venetian and of a 
consummate actor. 

Though at first she had been moved by the sound of his voice, and 
alarmed more by the sense of her own weakness, than at the strength 
of his seductions, Consuelo, who had no less than he reflected much 
during the last four months, soon recovered enough clearness of intel- 
lect to recognise in all these protestations, all this passionate elo- 
quence, the same jargon to that she had heard fifty times during the 
latter days of their unhappy connection while at Venice. She was 
disgusted at hearing repeated the same old oaths, the same old prayers, 
as if nothing had occurred since those old quarrels at a day when she 
had so little understood the real odiousness of Anzoleto’s conduct. 
Indignant alike at his audacity and at his pouring forth such elegant 
harangues, when nothing was- in truth desirable but the silence of 
shame and the tears of repentance, she cut short all his fine declara- 
tions, by rising to her feet, and replying coldly; “Enough! enough! 
Anzoleto. I have long since pardoned you, and I have no longer an 
ill feeling toward you. Indignation has made way for pity, and for- 
getfulness of the wrongs you have done me has come with the forget- 
fulness of what I have suffered. I thank you for the good feeling 
which led you to interrupt your journey, in order to seek a reconcilia- 
tion with me. Your pardon, as you see, had been granted beforehand ; 
so now, fare you well, and do you proceed on your way.” 

“ What, I ! I leave you, I leave you again ! ” cried Anzoleto, now 
really alarmed. “ No. Bather would I have you order me to kill 
myself outright. No: how can I resolve to live without you. I could 
not do it, Consuelo. I have endeavored, and. I know that it is use- 
less. Where you are not, to me there is nothing — all is void. My 
hateful ambition, my miserable vanity, to which I would in vain have 
sacrificed my love, are additions to my torture, and give me no 
longer even a momentary pleasure. Your image pursues me every- 
where — the memory of our happiness so pure, so chaste, so delicious 
— and whither should I go to seek for another like unto you — is ever 
before my eyes, and all the fantasies with which I would surround 
myself now, cause me only the deepest disgust. Oh ! Consuelo ! call 
to mind our lonely Venetian nights, our boat, our stars, our intermin- 
able songs, your admirable lessons, our long thrilling kisses. Call to 
mind your little bed whereon I slept alone, while you were saying 
your rosary aloft on the terrace. Did not I love you then ? Is it 
possible that a man who has ever respected you, even when you were 
asleep, and when shut up with you alone, should be held incapable of 
loving you? Say that I have been infamous in my conduct toward 
others, have I not been as an angel toward you? And God knows 
alone what it cost me. Oh! forget not all this! You, who declared 
that you loved me so well, you have forgotten all this! and I, who am 
an ungrateful wretch, a monster, a coward, I have been unable to for- 
get, no not for a single instant; and I will not renounce my recollec- 
tions, although you renounce them at once and without an effort. 
But you have never loved me, although you are an angel, and I have 
ever adored you, although I be a demon.” 

“ It is possible,” returned Consuelo, struck by the accent of truth 
with which he uttered these words, “ that you do feel a sincere regret 
for that happiness which was tainted and destroyed by yourself alone. 
If so, it is a punishment which it is for you to accept humbly, and 


CONSUELO. 


269 


which it is not for me to turn away from you. Happiness corrupted 
you, Anzoleto. It is necessary now, that punishment should purify 
you. Go, then, and remember me, if the bitterness of that remem- 
brance be salutary to you. If not, forget me, as 1 forget you. I, who 
have no fault to expiate or to redress.” 

“Ah! you have a heart of steel,” cried Anzoleto, surprised and 
offended by her incomprehensible calmness. “ But do not imagine 
that you can thus drive me hence. It is possible that ray arrival an- 
noys, that my presence wearies you. I know well that you desire to 
sacrifice the memory of our love to rank and fortune. But it shall 
not be so. I have attached myself to you, and if I lose you, it shall 
not be without a struggle. I will recall the past to your memory, 
and I will do so in the presence of your new friends, if you desire it. 
I will repeat the oaths that you made by your dying mother’s bedside, 
which you have renewed to me a hundred times upon her tomb, and 
in the churches, whither we used to go and kneel side by side among 
the crowds to listen to the fine music, and to speak in subdued whis- 
pers. I will recall to your mind, humbly kneeling upon my knees, 
things which you will not refuse to hear; and if you do refuse, wo to 
us twain. I will proclaim, before your new lover, things of which he 
has no suspicions. For they know nothing of you, not even that you 
have been an actress. Well; I will tell it then, and we will see 
whether the noble Count Albert will recover reason enough to dispute 
you with an actor, a friend, an equal, a betrothed, a lover! Ah ! drive 
me not to despair, Consuelo, or soon — ” 

“ Threats! At length then I find, and I recognise you, Anzoleto,” 
cried the girl, now thoroughly indignant. “ Ah, I prefer you thus; I 
thank you for having raised the mask. Yes, thanks to heaven ! 
henceforth, I have neither regret for you, nor pity. I see all the gall 
that is in your heart, all the baseness in your character, all the hatred 
in your love. Go, satiate your spite. Thus, you will render me a ser- 
vice; but unless you are as deeply used to calumny as you are to in- 
sult, you can say nothing of me, which can call up a blush to my 
cheek.” 

As she spoke thus, she turned to the door, opened it, and was on 
the point of leaving the room, when she found herself face to face 
with Count Christian. At the mere sight of that venerable old man, 
who advanced toward him, after kissing Consuelo’s hand with an air 
of mingled majesty and affability, Anzoleto, who was in the act of 
springing forward to retain the girl, willing or unwilling, returned in- 
timidated, and lost the boldness of his demeanor. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

“ Dear Signora,” said the old count, “ pardon me for not having 
given Monsieur, your brother, a better reception. I had given orders 
that I should not be interrupted this morning, because I was occupied 
with some unusual business; and I was not informed timely enough 
to receive a guest who must, both as regards myself and all my family, 
be welcome in this house. Be assured, Monsieur,” he added turning 
toward Anzoleto, “ that it is with the greatest pleasure I see so near a 


2T0 


C () N S U E L O. 


relation of our well-bc'hn'ed Porporina. I beg you, therefore, to re- 
main witli us so long as it shall be agreeable to you. I presume that 
after so long a separation you must have many things to say one to 
the other; must feel much joy at finding yourselves again together. 
I hope therefore, that you will allow no foolish scruples to prevent 
you from taking time to the enjoyment of a happiness, which I ray' 
self share witli you.” 

Contrary to his wont, the old Count Christian was speaking at his 
ease with a stranger; for long since his shyness had evaporated when- 
ever he was in the company of the gentle Consuelo; and on this day in 
particular, his countenance seemed to be illuminated by a ray of life 
more brilliant than usual, like the i-ays which the sun pours abroad 
over the country at the hour of his setting. Anzoleto was as it were 
stupefied before that peculiar majesty with which uprightness and se- 
renity of soul shed on the brow of a venerable old man. He knew 
well how to fear and cringe before nobles and lords, but he liated 
them all the while, and mocked them inwardly while he fawned upon 
them. He had found but too many objects for his scorn in the great 
world, among which he had lived so short a time. Never yet had he 
seen dignity so well maintained, and politeness so cordial, as that of 
the old Chatelaine of Riesenberg. He was confused as he thanked 
him, and almost repented of having cheated him out of the almost 
fatherly reception which he had given liim, by an act of imposture. 
He feared above all that Consuelo would expose him, and declare to 
the count that he was not her brother. He felt at the time that if 
she did so, he had it not in his power to play his part with effrontery, 
or even to aim at avenging himself upon her. 

“ I am penetrated by your goodness. Monsieur le Comte,” said Con- 
suelo, after a moment’s reflection ; “ but my brother, who feels it as 
deeply as I do, cannot have the honor of partaking of it. Pressing 
business calls him to Prague, and he has but now bid me adieu.” 

“ That is impossible,” said the count. “ You have seen one another 
but a moment.” 

“ He lost several hours waiting for me,” she replied, “ and now his 
minutes are numbered. He well knows,” she added, looking signifi- 
cantly at her pretended brother, “ that he cannot stay here a minute 
longer.” 

The coldness with which she insisted on this, restored to Anzoleto 
all the hardihood of his character, and all the coolness of the part which 
he was playing. “ Let whatever the devil will — I would say God will,” 
(he c()rrected himself) “ come of it, but I cannot leave iny sister so 
speedily as she would have me, in her prudence and reason. I know 
no business which is worth a juinute’s happiness; and since Monseig- 
neur permits me so generously, 1 gratefully accept his invitation. I 
will stay. My engagements at Prague will be fulfilled a little later in 
the day. That is all.” 

“ This is talking like a vain boy,” replied Consuelo, deeply annoyed. 
“ These are matters of business in which honor should stand above 
all interests.” 

“It is talking like a brother,” replied Anzoleto; “ and you are al- 
ways talking like a queen, my good little sister.” 

“ It is talking like a good young man,” added the old count, again 
offering his hand to Anzoleto. “ I know no business that may not be 
deferred until the morrow. It is true that I have always been re- 
proached for my indolence, but for my own part I have always found 


0 O N S U E 1. O. 


271 


worse consequences ai'ise from rashness than from delay For in- 
stance, my dear Porporina, for tliese two days, I might say these two 
weeks past, I have said a prayer to offer to yon, and yet, I have put it 
off until now. I think that I have done well, and that the moment 
has arrived. Can you grant me to-day the houi-’s conversation which 
I was coming to ask of yon, when I was informed of your brother’s 
anival? It seems to me that this fortunate circumstance lias fallen 
out quite apropos, and perhaps he will not be out of place in the con- 
ference which I propose to you.” 

“ I am always and at all hours at your lordship’s commands,” re- 
plied Consuelo. “ As to my bi-other, he is a mere boy whom I do not, 
without special reason, associate in my personal affairs.” 

“I know that well,” answered Anzoleto impudently: “but since 
Monseigneur thinks fit to authorize me, I have no need of any per- 
mission but his, to enter into this confidential interview.” 

“ You will be so kind as to allow me to judge of what is fitting be- 
tween me and yourself,” replied Consuelo, haughtily. “ Monsieur le 
Comte. I am ready to follow you into your apartment, and to listen to 
you with respect.” 

“You are very stern with this good young man, who looks so frank 
and good-humored,” said the Count, smiling; and then turning to 
Anzoleto. he added, “ Be not impatient, ray son. Your turn will 
soon come. What I have to say to your sister can not be long con- 
cealed from you; and as you say, I trust that ere long she will permit 
me to take you into our confidence.” 

Anzoleto had the impertinence to reply to the frank gaiety of the 
old nobleman, by retaining his hand between both his own, as if he 
had wished to attach himself to him, and to surprise him of the 
secret from which Consuelo. desired to exclude him. 

He had not even the good taste to understand that he ought to 
leave the diawing-room, in order to spare the count the trouble of 
leaving it himself But when he found himself once more alone, he 
stamped with rage, fearing that this young girl, who had now become 
entirely the mistress of herself might disconcert all his plans, and 
cause him to be turned out of the house in spite of all his cleverness. 
He took it into his head, then, to glide out into the body of the house, 
and to go and listen at all the doors. He left the drawing-room with 
this intent, wandered for a few moments about the gardens, then ven- 
tured into the galleries, pretending, wdienever he met any of the ser- 
vants, to be admiring the fine architecture of the castle. But on 
three different occasions he observed a sitigularly grave person, 
dressed in black, pass by, whose attention he felt no particular incli- 
nation to call toward himself This was Albert, who did not seem 
to remark him, but who at the same time never lost sight of him. 
Anzoleto, observing that he was taller than himself by a liead, and 
noticing the remarkable beauty of his features, began to understand 
that in the madman of Eiesenberg he had a much more formidable 
rival than he had imagined. He determined, therefore, on returning 
to the drawing-room, where he tried his fine voice in that large area, 
running his fingers abruptly over the notes of the piano forte. 

“ My daughter,” said Count Christian to Consuelo, after he had led 
her into his study and seated her in his great velvet arm-chair, fringed 
with velvet, while he sat on a folding chair by her side. “ I have now 
to ask your pardon, and I scarcely know with what right I can do so, 
until you are aware of my intentions. May I flatter myself that my 


CONSUELO. 


272 

grey hairs, my tender regard for you, and my friendsliip for the noble 
Porpora, your adopted father, may give you confidence enough in me, 
that you will consent unreservedly to open your heart to me? ” 

Affected, and at the same time a little alarmed by this preamble, 
Consuelo raised the old man’s hand to her lips, and replied, earnestly: 

“ Yes, Monsieur le Comte, I respect and love you as if I had the 
honor to have had you for my father; and I can answer all your 
questions, so far as they concern myself, without fear or equivoca- 
tion.” 

“ I will ask no more of you, my dear daughter, and I thank you for 
the promise. Believe that I am as incapable of abusing it, as I believe 
you to be of breaking it.” 

“ I believe you, Monsieur le Comte. Pray proceed.” 

“ Well, my daughter,” asked the old man, with an artless yet en- 
couraging curiosity, “ what is your name? ” 

“ I have no name,” replied Consuelo, without hesitation. “ My 
mother had no other name than Rosmunda. At my baptism I was 
called ‘ Mary of Consolation ; ’ niy father I never knew.” 

“ But you know his naihe ? ” 

“ I do not, my lord. I never heard him even spoken of.” 

“ Master Porpora adopted you, I think. Did he give you his name 
by a legal process ? ” 

“ No, my lord. Among artists, such things are not usual, nor are 
they deemed necessary. My generous master has no property, nor 
anything to leave to me. As to his name, it is a matter of no conse- 
quence to one in my social position, whether I bear it of justice or of 
right. If I justify it by the possession of any talents, I shall have ac- 
quired it fairly. If not, I shall have received an honor of which I aln 
unworthy.” 

The count was silent for a few moments. Then, taking Consuelo’s 
hand once again : “ The noble frankness,” he said, “ with which you 
reply to me, gives me the highest opinion of you. Do not imagine 
that I have asked these details in order to undervalue you, either for 
your birth or your condition. I wished to perceive whether you had 
any reluctance to tell me the truth, and I perceive that you have 
none. I give you infinite credit for it, and I liold you nobler through 
your virtues than we are ourselves, we nobles, by virtue of our 
titles.” 

Consuelo smiled at the good taste with which the old patrician ad- 
mired her making so ready a confession, and that without a blush. 
In that surprise there was visible to her a remnant of those preju- 
dices which existed in the mind of Christian, the more tenaciously in 
proportion as he resisted them the more nobly; for it was evident 
that he was combating them, and that he desired to conquer them. 

“ Now,” he resumed, “ my dear child, I am about to put you a ques- 
tion yet more delicate than these, and I have cause to ask all your in- 
dulgence to my temerity.” 

“ Fear nothing, monseigneur,” said she. “ I will answer everything ; 
and that with as little hesitation as the last.” 

“ Well, my child, you are not married, are you? ” 

“ No, monseigneur; not that I am aware.” 

“ And— you are not a widow?— you have no children?” 

“ I am not a widow, and have no children,” said Consuelo, now half 
inclined to laugh, not guessing at what the count was aiming. 

“ To be short then,” he resumed, “ you havf not engaged yourself 
to any one — are you perfectly free ? ” 


CONSUELO. 


273 


Pardon me, monseigneur, I had engaged myself with the consent, 
and even by the commands of my dying mother, to a youth whom I 
had loved from my childhood, with whom I was brought up, and 
whose betrothed I was when I left Venice.” 

“ Ah! you are engaged, then,” said the count with a strange mix- 
ture of regret and satisfaction. 

“ No, monseigneur, I am perfectly free,” replied Consuelo. “ He 
whom I loved broke faith with me disgracefully, and I left him for- 
ever.” 

“ You loved him, then?” asked the count, after a pause. 

“ I did. With my whole soul.” 

“ And — perhaps you love him yet?" 

“ No, monseigneur, that is impossible.” 

“ And should you have no pleasure in seeing him again.” 

“ The sight of him would be torture to me.” 

“ And you never permitted — I mean to say he never dared . 

But you will say that I am intrusive, and seek to know too much.” 

“I understand you, monseigneur; and since I am called upon to 
confess, and do not desire to obtain your esteem surreptitiously,! will 
put it in your power to judge, to a tittle, whether I deserve it or not. 
He dared many things — but nothing save what I permitted. We have 
often drank from the same cup, rested on the same bench. He has 
slept in my room while I have told my beads. He has watched over 
me when I have been sick. I did not keep myself fearfully. We 
were alone in the world, therefore we loved one another; we were to 
be married, therefore we respected one another. I had sworn to my 
mother to be what is called a prudent girl; and I have kept my word 
— if it be prudent for one to believe a man who is bound to deceive 
her, and to give confidence, affection, and esteem, to a man who de- 
serves no one of these. It was when he wished to cease being my 
brother without becoming my husband, that 1 began to defend myself. 
It was when he began to be faithless to me that I rejoiced that I had 
defended myself. It was in the power of that man, utterly void as he 
is of honor, to boast to the contrary. But to a poor girl like me that 
matters little. So long as I sing truly, the world asks no more of me. 
So long as I can look without remorse to the crucifix, on which 1 
swore to my mother that I would be chaste, 1 shall not trouble my- 
self much what the world says of me. I have no family to blush for 
me; no brothers, no cousins to fight for me ” 

” No brothers?— you have one.” 

Consuelo felt herself on the point of revealing the w’hole truth to 
the old count, under the seal of secresy. But she feared that it would 
be cowardly in her to seek otherwise than from herself, protection 
against one who had menaced her so cowardly. She thought that she 
ought to have within herself firmness enough to defend and deliver 
herself from Anzoleto. And farther yet, the generosity of her nature 
forbade her to think even of having a man turned out of doors whom 
she had loved so religiously. How politely soever Count Christian 
might contrive to rid" himself of Anzoleto, how infamous soever the 
conduct of Anzoleto might have been, she could not find it in her 
heart to subject him to so terrible a humiliation. She replied, there- 
fore, to the old man’s explanation by saying that she regarded her 
brother as a wrong-headed, hair-brained boy, whom she had nevei 
been used to treat except as a child. 

“ But he is not a bad character, is he? ” asked the count. 

17 


274 


CONSUELO, 


“ Perhaps he is a bad character,*’ she replied. “ I have as little to 
do with him as possible; our characters and manners are very differ- 
ent. Your lordship must have remarked that I was by no means anx- 
ious to keep him liere.” 

“ That shall be as you will, my child. I believe that your judgment 
is excellent; and now that you have confided everything to me, with 
a frankness so noble ” 

“ Pai-don me, monseigneur,” Consuelo interrupted him. “ I have 
not told you all that relates to me; for you have not asked me all. I 
am ignorant of the motives for that interest which you have this day 
deigned to take in my existence: but I presume that some one has 
spoken to you more or less unfavorably of me, and that you are desir- 
ous of'knowing whether my presence here is a dishonor to your house. 
Thus far you have questioned rne only on very superficial points, and 
I should have thought myself very deficient in modesty had I pre- 
sumed to enter into conversation with you on my own private affairs, 
without your permission; but since you seem to wish to be acquaint- 
ed with everything concerning me, I ought to inform you of a circum- 
stance which will, perhaps, lower me in your opinion. It is not only 
possible, as you have often imagined, that I may be induced to adopt 
the stage as a profession, although I have at present no such inten- 
tion ; but it is also true that I made my debut at Venice last year, 
under the name of Consuelo. I was surnamed the Zingarella, and all 
Venice is acquainted with my face and my voice.” 

“ Hold!” cried the count, astonished at this new revelation, “ Youl 
— are you, then, that wonder, concerning whom there was such an 
ado at Venice last year, and who was mentioned in all the Italian 
papers, with such pompous eulogiums? The finest voice, the greatest 
genius, that has been displayed within the memory of man.” 

“ On the stage of San Samuel, monseigneur, doubtless those praises 
were grossly exaggerated; but it is incontestable that I am that very 
same Consuelo, that I sang in several operas, and that I am an 
actress, or as people call me more politely, a cantatrice. You can 
judge now whether I deserve the continuance of your goodness.” 

“ These are very extraordinary circumstances, and a very singular 
destiny! ” said the count, enwrapped in deep reflections. “ Have you 
ever mentioned this, here to — to any other tnan myself, my child ? ” 

“ I have told nearly all of it to your son. Monseigneur, although I 
have not gone into all the details which you have heard.’* 

“Albert, then, is acquainted with your extraction, your first love, 
your profession ? ” 

“ Yes, Monseigneur.” 

“It is well, my dear signora. I cannot thank you enough for the 
admirable uprightness of your conduct in regard to us; and I prom- 
ise you that you shall have no cause to repent of it. Now, Consuelo 
— (yes, I remember that is the name by which Albert has called you 
from the first, whenever lie spoke Spanish with you) — permit me to 
collect myself a little, for I feel greatly moved, and we have yet many 
subjects on which I wish to talk with you, my dear, and you must 
pardon the trouble I am giving you, as I draw near to a decision on 
so grave a subject. Do me the^fiivor to wait for me an instant here.” 

He went forth ; and Consuelo following him with her eyes saw him, 
tlirough the gilded doors adorned with panes of plate glass, pass into 
bis oratory, and there kneel down and pray fervently. 

Gradually become herself vehemently excited, she became lost in 


C () N S U E L O. 


275 


conjectures, as to what should be the result of a conversation so sol- 
emnly introduced. At first, she thought that while waiting for her, 
Anzoleto had already done, in his spiteful mood, what he had threat- 
ened to do; that he had talked with the chaplain, or with Ilanz, 
and that in a manner in which he had spoken of her had raised seri- 
ous scruples in the mind of her Iiosts. But Count Christian was one 
to whom it was impossible to feign; and up to this moment his de- 
meanor and his words both implied an increase, not a falling off, of 
affection. Moreover, the frankness of her replies had struck him, as 
if they had been most unexpected disclosures, and the last, moi-e es- 
pecially, had overcome him like a clap of thunder. And now he was 
praying God to enlighten him, or to sustain him in the performance 
of some great resolution. Is he about, she asked herself, to require 
me to separate myself from my brother? Is he about to offer me 
money? — ah! Heaven preserve from that outrage. But no; he is too 
delicate, too kind, to dream of so humiliating me. What, tiien. could 
he liave desired to say to me, in the first instance? what can he de- 
sire to say to me now? Doubtless my long walk with his son has 
alarmed him, and he is about to blame me. I have, perhaps, desei v- 
ed, and I will accept the lecture, since I cannot reply sincerely to the 
questions which he may put to me, with regard to Albert. This has 
been a hard day; and if I pass many more such I shall no longer be 
able to dispute the palm of song with Anzoleto’s jealous mistresses. 
I feel as though my breast were in flames and my throat parched. 

Count Christian now returned to her. He was calm, and his pale 
face bore witness to a victory gained with tlie noblest intentions. 
“ My daughter,” he resumed, seating himself again beside Consuelo, 
and compelling her to retain the sumptuous arm-chair, which she 
would fain have resigned to him, and on which she sat enthroned, 
against her own will, with an expression of fear, “ it is time that I 
should reply frankly to the frankness which you have given me. 
Consuelo, my son loves you.” 

Consuelo turned red and pale by turns. She endeavored to speak, 
but Christian interrupted her. 

“ I am not asking you a question,” said he. “ I should have no 
right to do so, nor you any to reply to me; for I know that you have 
in no wise encouraged Albert’s hopes. He has himself told me all; 
and I believe him, because he has never lied — nor have I.” 

“ Nor I,” said Consuelo, raising her eyes to heaven, with the most 
candid expression of pride. “ Count Albert should have told you, mon- 
seigneur ” 

“ That you rejected every idea of a union with him.” 

“ It was my duty so to do. I knew the usages and ideas of the world, 
I knew that I was not made to be a wife for Count Albert, if for this 
reason only, that I hold myself inferior to no living being before God, 
and that I would not receive as grace or favor, that which I hold to be 
just before men.” 

“ I know your just pride, Consuelo. I should think it exaggerated 
if Albert depended on himself alone; but believing, as you did, that I 
should not approve such a union, you were bound to reply as you did 
reply.” 

“Now, Monseigneur,” said Consuelo, rising, “I understand all that 
is to follow. Spare me, I beseech you, the humiliation, which I have 
been dreading. I will leave your house, as I would have left it long 
ago, had I not feared by doing so to compromise the reason or the life 


276 


CONSUELO. 


of Count Albert; on which I have greater influence than I have ever 
desired to possess. Since you know that which I was not permitted 
to reveal to you, you can now watch over him, prevent the conse- 
quences of this separation, and resume that care for him which belongs 
to you, and not to me. If I have indiscreetly arrogated it to myself, it 
is a fault which God will pardon me; for he knows with what purity 
of sentiment I have conducted myself thus far.” 

“ I know it,” replied the Count; “ and God has spoken to my con- 
science, even as Albert has spoken to my affections. Remain seated, 
therefore, Consuelo, and do not be in haste to condemn my inten- 
tions. It is not to order you to leave my house, that 1 asked you 
hither; but rather to implore you, with clasped hands, never again to 
leave it.” 

“ Never again ! ” cried Consuelo, sinking back in her chair, over- 
powered alike by the pleasure she felt at the reparation made to her 
dignity by this generous offer, and the alarm which its meaning 
caused her. “What! Stay here all my life! Your lordship cannot 
appreciate what you have done me the honor to offer me.” 

“ I have thought of it much, my daughter,” replied the count, with 
a melancholy smile; “and I feel that I have no reason to repent of it. 
My son loves you desperately; you have all power over his spirit. It 
is you who restored him to me — you who sought him out in that mys- 
terious place which he will not disclose to me, but to which, he has 
told me, no other than a mother or a saint would have dared to pen- 
etrate. It is you who risked your life to save him from the solitude 
and the frenzy in which he was wearing away his existence. It is, 
thanks to you, that he has ceased to give such terrible cause for un- 
easiness, by his long and unaccountable absences. It is you who has 
restored him to calmness, health, and reason by a single word ; for it 
must not be dissembled that my unhappy child was mad, and it is 
certain that he is mad no longer. We passed the whole of last night 
conversing together, and he showed me that he possessed a wisdom 
superior to my own. I knew that you were about to go out together 
this morning. I had given him authority, therefore, to ask you that 
to which you would not listen. You were afraid of mo, dear Consu- 
elo; you thought that the old Rudolstadt, thickly swathed in his aris- 
tocratic prejudices, would be ashamed to owe you his son. Well, you 
were deceived. The old Rudolstadt had his pride and his prejudices, 
doubtless, perhaps, some of them he has yet — he will not paint him- 
self as pure before you — but he abjures them, and under the impulse 
of an illimitable gratitude, he thanks you for having restored to him 
bis last, his only child. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

Consuelo was deeply affected by a demonstration which re-estab- 
lished her in her own opinion, and quieted her conscience. Up to that 
moment, she had often feared that she had given way imprudently to 
her generosity and her courage. Now she received their sanction and 
their reward. Her tears of joy were mingled with those of the old hian, 
and they sat a long time side by side, both too much affected to resume 
the conversation. 


CONSUELO, 


277 

Kevertheless, Consuelo did not yet understand the proposition which 
had been made to her; and the Count, fancying that he had explained 
himself sufficiently, looked on her silence and her tears as signs of her 
consent and gratitude. “ I will go now,” he said at length, “ and 
bring my son to your feet, that he may join his blessings to mine on 
learning the full extent of his happiness.” 

“Hold, Monseigneur!” cried Consuelo, astonished at his precipita- 
tion. “ I do not understand what you require of me. You approve 
of the affection which Count Albert has bestowed on me, and the de- 
votedness which I have exhibited for him. You grant me all your 
confidence: you know that I will not betray it; but how can I engage 
to consecrate my wdiole life to a friendship of so delicate a nature? I 
see that you rely on time and on my reason to maintain the holy and 
moral disposition of your son, and to tranquilize the vivacity of his at- 
tachment to myself; but I know not whether I shall be able long to 
maintain that power; and, moreover, if such an intimacy with a man so 
enthusiastic were not in itself too dangerous, I am not at liberty to con- 
secrate myself even to a task so glorious — I do not belong to myself.” 

“Heavens! what say you, Consuelo? Have you, then, misunder- 
stood me? or did you deceive me when you told me that you w'ere 
free — that you had no attachment of the heart, nor engagement, nor 
family?” 

“ But, Monseigneur,” replied Consuelo, still more astonished, “ I 
have a profession, a calling, a position. I belong to the art to which 
from my infancy I was consecrated.” 

“ What do you say ? Great God ! Do you wish to return to the 
stage ? ” 

“ I do not say that. I told you the truth when I said that my 
wishes point not that way. I have not yet experienced aught but 
horrid sufferings during that stormy career. But I feel, nevertheless, 
that I should be rash were I to pledge myself to renounce it. It is 
my destiny, and perhaps it is not in the power of mortal to elude the 
future which he has traced out unto himself. Whether I return to 
the boards, or give lessons and concerts, I must be still a cantatrice. 
For what should 1 be good, if not for that? Where should I find in- 
dependence? W^ith what should I occupy ray spirit, wearied with 
toil and thirsting for that species of excitement? ” 

“ O, Consuelo! Consuelo!” cried Count Christian, with a painful 
cry, “ all that you say to me is true. But I thought that you loved 
my son — and now I see that you love him not.” 

“ And if 1 did love him with that degree of passion wffiich is neces- 
sary to self-renunciation, what should you say then. Monseigneur? ” 
cried Consuelo, impatiently. “Do you suppose it absolutely impossi- 
ble that a woman should fall in love with Count Albert, that you ask 
me to stay with him always? ” 

“ What! have I then explained myself so ill, or do you think me an 
idiot, my dear Consuelo? Have I not asked your heart and hand for 
my son ? Have I not laid at your feet a legitimate and, certainly, an 
honorable alliance? If you love Albert you will find, doubtless, in 
the happiness of sharing his life, a recompense for the glory and the 
triumphs which you will forsake. But you love him not, since you 
cannot regard it but as impossible to sacrifice what you call the destiny 
of your life.” 

This explanation was certainly tardy, though the good Count 
Christian knew it not. It was not without a mixture of fear and 


0 O N S U E L O. 


278 

mortal repugnance that the good old lord had sacrificed to the happi- 
ness of his son, all the ideas of his life, all his principles of caste, and 
when, after a long and painful struggle with Albert and himself, lie 
had consummated the sacrifice, the actual ratification of an act so 
terrible could not be divulged from his heart, through his lips, without 
a second effort. 

This Consiielo foresaw or divined; for at the moment when Chris 
tian appeared to give up all hopes of obtaining her consent to this 
marriage, there was certainly a strange expression of involuntary joy 
mingled with a sort of consternation legible in the features of the old 
lord. 

In an instant Consuelo understood her situation, and a pride, per- 
haps a little too personal in its nature, made her shrink from the alli- 
ance that was proposed to her. “ Do you wish me to become Count 
Albert’s wife?” she said, still struck with wonder at so strange a 
proposal. “ Will you consent that I shall bear your name? will you 
call me your daughter? will you present me to your relatives, to your 
friends? Ah! Monseigneur, how much you must love your son, and 
how much he ought to love you ! ” 

“ If you consider this generosity so great, Consuelo, it must bo 
either because your heart can conceive none such, or because the 
object of* it appears unworthy to you.” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Consuelo, having collected herself, and hid- 
ing her face in her hands, “ I think I am dreaming. My pride arouses 
in my own despite, at the thought of the humiliation in which my 
whole life would be steeped were I to accept the sacrifice which your 
paternal love leads you to offer me.” 

“ And who would dare to humiliate you, Consuelo, when the father 
and the son alike would shield you with the egis of marriage and of 
our family ? ” 

“And the aunt. Monseigneur; would the aunt, who is the true 
mother of this family, endure to look on that without a blush ? ” 

“ She will come herself and add her prayers to ours, if you will 
promise to be persuaded by them. Do not ask more than the weak- 
ness of human nature can grant. A lover, a father, may endure the 
humiliation and the pain of a refusal; my sister would not dare en- 
counter it. But with the certainty of success we will bring her into 
your arms, my daughter.” 

“ Monseigneur,” asked Consuelo, trembling, “ did Count Albert 
tell you that I loved him ? ” 

“No,” replied the Count, struck with a sudden reminiscence; 
“ Albert told me a hundred times that the obstacle would be in your 
own heart. He repeated it to me time after time; but I — I could not 
believe it. Your reserve, I supposed, was founded on your upright- 
ness and your delicacy; but I believed that delivering you of your 
scruples I would obtain from you the confession which you had re- 
fused to him.” 

“ And what said he to you of our walk to-day? ” 

“One w'ord only. ‘Try, father. It is the only way to know 
whether it is pride or dislike that bars against me the avenues of her 
heart.’ ” 

“ Alas! Monseigneur, what should you say were I to tell you that 
I know not myself.” 

“ I shoidd think it was dislike, my dear Consuelo. Alas ! my son ! 
my unhappy son ! How frightful a destiny is this. That he cannot 


CON SUE 1,0. 270 

be loved by the only woman whom he can ever love! This last mis- 
fortune was alone wanting to us ! ” 

“Oh! Monseigneur, how you must hate me— oh, my God! you 
cannot understand how my pride can still resist when you have im- 
■Qolated your own. The pride of a girl, such as I, must seem to you 
to lack foundation, and yet, believe me, there is at this moment as 
violent a strife in my breast as that which you have vanquished in 
your own.” 

“ I understand it. Believe not. Signora, that I do not respect 
enough the modesty, the uprightness, and the disinterestedness of 
your nature, not to comprehend the pride which is founded on the 
possession of such treasures. But that which paternal love has suf- 
ficed to conquer — you see that I speak to you with perfect openness 
— I do think the love of a woman may conquer also. Weli, then, 
supposing that the whole life of Albert, my own life and yours, 
should be a struggle against the prejudices of the world — supposing 
that we must suffer much and long, all three of us, and my sister 
with us, would there not be in our mutual tenderness, in the evi- 
dences of our consciences, and in the fruits of our devotion, enough 
to make us stronger than the whole woild combined against us. A 
great love makes all those evils appear light, which seem to you too 
heavy for yourself and for all of us. But this great love you seek for, 
timid and overcome, in the depths of your own soul, and yoir find it 
not, Consuelo, for it is not there.” 

“In truth, then, you are right,” said Consuelo, pressing her hands 
strongly against her heart, “ the question lies in that, entirely in that: 
all the rest is as nothing, I, also, I have had my prejudices: your 
conduct has proved to me that it is my duty to tread them under foot 
— to be as great, as heroical as you are. Let us say no more of my re- 
pugnances, of my false shame. Let us speak no more even of my fu- 
ture prospects, of my art,” she added, with a deep sigh. “ Even that 
1 could abjure; if— if I love Albert, for it is that which I must learn. 
Listen to me. Monseigneur. I have asked myself that, very question 
more than a hundred times; but never with that confidence which 
the knowledge of your decision gives me. How should I have been 
able to question myself seriously on that point, while to ask that ques- 
tion was in itself as I then regarded it, either a madness or a crime. 
Now I believe' that I can know myself, and determine. I ask of you 
a few days to collect myself, and to know if the immense devotion 
which I feel for him, the unlimited respect and esteem with which bis 
great qualities fill me, the powerful sympathy which he commands, 
that vast dominion which he exerts over me by his slightest word, 
arise from love, or from admiration only. For I ifeel all this, Monseig- 
neur, and all this is combated within me by an inexplicable terror; 
by a deep melancholy ; and I will confess it to you, O my noble friend, 
by the memory of a love less enthusiastical, but sweeter and more ten- 
der, and which resembles this in nothing.” 

“ Strange and noble girl,” replied Christian, tenderly, “ what wis- 
dom, and yet what wild fantasies, are mingled in your words. In 
many respects you resemble my poor Albeit, and again, the vague 
agitation and uncertainty of your sentiments remind me of my wife, 
my noble, my lovely, my melancholy Wanda. O, Consuelo, you 
awaken in me recollections very tender, yet very bitter. I was about 
to say to you. Conquer this irresolution, overcome these prejudices; 
love, from virtue only; from greatness of soul, from compassion, 


280 


C O N S U E L O. 


froTii tlie exertion of a pious and ardent charity, this iinliappy man, 
who adores you. and who, even if he render you unhappy, will owe 
you his salvation, and will make you worthy of a celestial recom- 
pense. You have recalled to my mind his mother — his mother, who 
gave herself to me as a duty and an act of friendsliip. Slie could not 
feel for me, a plain, good-humored, shy man. that enthusiasm which 
burned in her imagination. She was, however, faithful and gener- 
ous to the end; and yet how slie suffered. Alas! her affection was 
my joy, and at the same time my torture; her constancy my pride 
and my remorse. She died in her undertaking, and my heart was 
broken for ever. And now if I am living without an object, obliter- 
ated, dead before my time, be not astonished at it, Consuelo; I have 

suffered what no one has ever understood, what no one has ever 

heard, and which I tremble in confessing to you. Oh! rather than 

induce you to make such a saci'ilice, or urge Albert to accept it, may 
my eyes be closed in grief, and may my son fall a victim to the destiny 
which it would seem awaits him. I know too well the consequence 
of endeavoring to force nature, and of combating the irresistible pro- 
pensities of living souls. Take time, then, to reflect, my daughter,” 
added the old count, pressing Consuelo to his breast, swollen with 
sobs, and kissing her noble brow with all a father's love. “ Thus all 
will be for the best. If you must refuse, Albert, prepared by previous 
anxiety, will not be thunderstruck by the shock, as he would have 
been to-day by the horrible information.” 

With this their interview was ended, and Consuelo, gliding timidly 
through the galleries, in constant apprehension of meeting Anzoleto, 
took refuge in her own chamber, wearied and exhausted with excite- 
ment. 

First she endeavored to bring herself down to the requisite state of 
composure by trying to get a little sleep. She felt thoroughly broken, 
and scarcely had she thrown herself upon her bed than she fell into 
a state of somnolence which was painful rather than restorative. 
She was desirous of falling asleep with the thought of Albert on her 
mind, in order to assimilate it to herself during those mysterious 
manifestations of sleep, in which we sometimes believe that we find 
the prophetic meaning of things which pre-occupy our minds. But the 
interrupted dreams which flitted through her mind for several hours, 
incessantly, brought back to her eyes Anzoleto in lieu of Albert. It 
was ever Venice — ever the Corte Minelli. It was ever her first love, 
calm, full of promise, and poetical. And each time that she awoke 
the recollection of Albert must needs return to her, accompanied by 
sinister thoughts of the cavern, wherein sounds of the violin, repeated 
tenfold by the echoes of the solitude, seemed to evoke the dead, or to 
mourn over the scarce closed tomb of Zdendo. At that idea fear and 
sorrow closed her heart against any impression of tenderness. The 
future which was proposed to her. came to her fancy only through the 
medium of cold darkness and bloody visions, while the past, radiant 
and fertile of happiness, gave her bosom to expand, and filled her 
heart with joyous palpitations. She thought, as she dreamed of that 
past, that she heard her own voice echoing through boundless space, 
filling the void of nature, and widening in^^ast cii-cles as it soared up- 
ward to the universe; while on the other hand, so often as the fan- 
tastical sounds of the cavern-violin returned to her mind, her voice 
became hollow and dismal, and lost itself like the death-rattle in the 
abyss of the earth. 


C O N S U E L O. 


281 


Those vajjiie dreams wearied her to such a degree that she arose in 
order to banish them; and the first tones of the bell informing her 
tliat dinner would be served within half an hour, she began to dress 
herself, still continuing to involve herself in all the same ideas. But 
strange as it may seem, for the first time in her life, slie was more 
attentive to her mirror, and more occupied with her hair and its 
adjustment, than with the sei'ious affairs of wliich she was seeking a 
solution. In spite of herself she made herself as handsome as she 
could, and desired to be so. And it was not to awaken the desires 
and arouse the jealousy of two rival lovers, that she felt that irresisti- 
ble impulse of coquetry; she thought not, she could not think save 
of one only. Albert had never said a word to her of her face. In 
the enthusiasm of his passion he thought her more beautiful than she 
really was; but so elevated were his ideas, that he would have deem- 
ed it a profanation to look at her person with the eyes of a lover, or 
scrutinize her witli the satisfaction of an artisL. She was always 
enveloped in a cloud which his eyes could not penetrate, and which 
his fancy converted into a dazzling glory. Whether she looked better 
or worse, to him she was ever the same. He had seen her pale, 
emaciated, faded, struggling in the embrace of death, and resembling 
a spectre rather than a woman. He had then sought in her features, 
with attention and anxiety, the symptoms of her malady for the bet- 
ter or for the worse; but it never had occurred to him to think in 
that moment whether she was ugly or not, nor whether she could 
ever become an object of repugnance and disgust. And when she 
had recovered all the brilliancy of her youth, and the expression of 
life, he saw not whether she had lost or gained beauty. She was to 
him, whether in life or in death, the ideal of all youth, of all sublime 
expression, of all unmatched and incomparable beauty. Thus Con- 
suelo had never once thought of him while she was dressing herself 
before her mirror. 

But what a difference on the part of Anzoleto; with what minute 
attention he had gazed at her, judged and dissected her in his imagi- 
nation, on the day when he had asked himself whether she was not 
ugly? Now, he had taken note of the smallest graces of her person, 
novv admired the least pains she had taken to please him! How he 
knew her hair, her arms, her foot, her carriage, every tint that was 
blended in her beautiful complexion, every fold of her wavy garments! 
With what ardent vivacity he had praised her loveliness; with what 
voluptuous languishment he had perused her! At that time, the 
chaste girl understood not the beatings of her own heart. She wished 
not to understand them now; and yet she felt them grow more vio- 
lent at the idea of reappearing before his eyes. She grew angry with 
herself; she blushed for very shame and vexation; she endeavored to 
beautify herself for Albert alone; and yet unconsciously she chose the 
head-dress, the riband, and even the expression of the eye which pleas- 
ed Anzoleto. “Alas! alas!” she said to herself, as she tore herself 
away from the mirror, when her toilet was completed ! “ it is then 
true that I can think but of him alone, and that happiness overpass- 
ed exercises over me a power more puissant than that effected by 
present contempt, and the promise of a future love. I may look to 
the future as I will, without him it can be nothing but terror and de- 
spair. And what would it be with liim? Do I not know that the hap- 
py days of Venice cannot return again; that innocence can nevei 
dwell with us again, that the soul of Anzoleto is so brutalized and cor- 


282 


C O N S U E L O. 


rupted, that his caresses would debase me, and that my life would 
hourly be poisoned by sliame, Jealousy, teri'or and re^iet? ’’ 

While she questioned herseif on this head with the strictest sever- 
ity, Consuelo was assured that she was not deceiving heiself, and that 
she had not the most secret emotion of desire for Anzoleto. She 
loved him not at the present — she feared and almost detested him in 
a futurity, wherein his perversity must needs increase constantly; but 
in the past, she loved him so passionately that her life and soul seem- 
ed inextricably bound up in the memory of him. lie was henceforth 
to her as the portrait of a being whom she had once adored, remind- 
ing her of days of delights; and, like a newly married widow, who 
conceals herself from her new husband in order to gaze on the i)oi- 
trait of the old, she felt that the dead love had more vitality than the 
living within her heart. 



CHAPTER LX. 


Consuelo had too much judgment and too much elevation of 
spirit not to know that of the two loves which she inspired, that of 
Count Albert was, without a possibility of comparison, the truer, the 
nobler, and the more precious. So that when she found herself in the 
presence of the two, she believed she had triumphed'over her enemy. 
The deep gaze of Albert, which seemed to sink to the very bottom of 
her soul, the slow and fii ni pressure of his loyal hand, made her aware 
that he was acquainted with the circumstance of her ccjiiference with 
Christian, and that he awaited her final decision sul)missively and 
gratefully. In truth, Albert had obtained more than he liad expec- 
ted; and the very uncertainty which he now felt was pleasurable to 
him as compared with that which he had apprehended ; so far was he 
removed from the overbearing and insolent presumption of Anzoleto. 
He, on the contrary, had armed himself with all his resolution. 

Having divined with considerable accuracy what was going on 
around him, he had determined to figlit it foot by foot, and not to 
leave the house until he should be thrust out by the shoulders. His 
free and easy attitude, his ironical and impudent glance, disgusted 
Consuelo to the last degree; and when he came up to her wilh his 
usual effrontery, and offered his hand, she turned away and took that 
which Albert presented to conduct her to dinner. As was the usual 
habit, the young count took his place at table opposite to Consuelo, 
and the old Christian made her seat herself at his left, in the chair 
formerly occupied by the Baroness Amelia, which she had used since 
her departure. Butin the place of the chaplain, who ordinarily sat 
there, the canoness insisted upon the pretended brother to place him- 
self between theju ; so that all Anzoleto’s bitter sarcasms uttered in 
the lowest whisper could reach the ears of the young girl, while his 
irreverent sallies could offend, as much as he desired, the aged priest, 
on whom he had already tried his hand. 

Anzoleto’s plan was very sitnple. He was anxious to render him- 
self odious and insupportable to those members of the family whom 
he suspected of being averse to the projected marriage, in order to 
gi\e them, by his own vulgarity, his familiar air, ami his mi'^applica- 


C O N S U E L O. 


283 


tion of words, the worst. idea of the companions and family of Con- 
suelo. “We shall see,” thought he to himself, “how they will get 
down the brother, whom I am about to serve up to them.” 

Anzoleto, who was a very unfinished singer, and but a moderate 
tragedian, had an intuitive talent as a good comedian. He had 
already seen enough of the world to know how to imitate the elegant 
manners and the agreeable language of good society; but to play 
that part would have been only to reconcile the canoness to the low 
exti-action of her son-in-law, and he therefore undertook the opposite 
line, and with the more success in that it was more natural to him. 
Being well satisfied that, although Wenceslawa persisted in speaking 
no language but German, the Court tongue, and that used in grave 
business, she did not miss a word which he spoke in Italian; he set 
himself to chatting, right or wrong, to singing the praises of the good 
Hungarian wine, the effects of which he did not fear in the least, ac- 
customed as he was of old to far more heady beverages, but of which 
he soon pretended to feel the hearty influences, in order to give him- 
self a more inveterate character as a drunkard. 

His project succeeded to a marvel. Count Christian, after having 
at first laughed indulgently at his sallies and his buffoonery, soon ceased 
to smile but with an effort, and required all the urbanity of his posi- 
tion as a lord in his own house, and all his affection as a father, to pre- 
vent his setting the odious brother-in-law, that was to be, of his noble 
son, in his proper place. The chaplain, perfectly indignant, could not 
sit easy on his chair, and murmured German exclamations which 
sounded like exorcisms. His meal was dreadfully disturbed, and never 
in his life was his digestion more uneasy. The canoness listened to all 
tbe impertinences of her guest with a constrained contempt and a ma- 
lignant satisfaction. At each new misdemeanor she raised her eyes to 
her brother as if to call him to witness; and the good Christian bowed 
his head, pr -tending to be absent, in order to distract the observation 
of the auditors. Then the canoness would look toward x\lbert; but 
Albert was impassive. He seemed neither to hear nor see their un- 
pleasant and jovial guest. 

But the most cruelly annoyed of all the persons present was un- 
questionably poor Consuelo. At first she believed that Anzoleto, in 
his long career of debauchery, had contracted those dissipated man- 
ners and that impudent turn of mind which almost hindered her re- 
cognition of him. She was indeed disgusted and astounded to such a 
degree as to be on the point of leaving the table. But when she per- 
ceived that it was a rune de guerre, she recovered the composure which 
became her innocence and her dignity. She had not mingled herself 
with the secrets and afflictions of that fainily, to win by intrigue the 
station that was offered to her. Tliat rank had not flattered her am- 
bition even for an instant, and she felt strong in her uprightness of 
conscience, to defy the secret suspicions of the canoness. She saw 
at a glance that the love of Albert and the confidence of his father 
were superior to such a wretched trial; and the contempt which she 
felt for Anzoleto, cowardly and malicious in his vengeance, rendered 
her stronger yet. Her eyes once met those of Albert, and they under- 
stood each other. Those of Consuelo asked the question, “Fes?” 
and those of Albert replied, “ In spite of all.” 

“It is not done yet,” said Anzoleto, in a low voice to Consuelo, for 
he had seen and interpreted the glance. 

“ You are issisting me much,” replied Consuelo, “ and I thank you 
for it.” 


284 


C O N S U E L O. 


They were both speaking between their lips in that rapid Venetian 
dialect which seems to be composed almost entirely of vowels, and in 
which there are so many ellipses that even Italians of Rome or Flor- 
ence have themselves some trouble in understanding it at a fii*st 
hearing. 

“ I can easily imagine that you detest me at this moment,” said An- 
zoleto; “and that you think it certain that you shall hate me forever. 
But you shall never escape me for all that.” 

“You have unmasked too soon,” said Consuelo. 

“ But not too late,” replied Anzoleto. “ Come, Padre mis Beneditto’* 
he continued, addressing himself to the chaplain, and nudging his 
elbow in such a sort as to make him spill half the glass of wine which he 
was raising to his lips over his hand. “ Drink more courageously of 
this good wine, which does as much good both to soul and body as 
that of the holy mass. Seigneur Count,” he continued, presenting his 
glass to the aged Christian, “ you have in reserve by 5'our side, a flask 
of yellow crystal, which shines like the sun. I am sure that if I were 
to swallow only one drop of the nectar it contains I should be changed 
into a demigod.” 

“ Beware, my good youth,” said the count laying his hand, covered 
with rings, on the cut neck of the flask. “ Old men’s wine sometimes 
shuts young men’s mouths.” 

“ You have a rage for being as pretty as a goblin,” said Anzoleto in 
good clear Italian to Consuelo, so that every one at table could hear 
him. “ You put me in mind of the Diavolessa of Galuppi, which you 
acted so well at Venice last year. Ah ha! Seigneur Count, do you 
expect to keep my sister long here in your golden cage, lined with 
silk. She is a song-bird, I can tell you, and the bird which is robbed of 
its voice soon loses its pretty feathers also. She is very happy here, I 
can well understand. But that good public, whom she turned giddy 
w’ith admiration last season, is asking for her again, and that aloud, 
down yonder; and, as for me, if you would give me your name, your 
castle, all the wine in your cellar, and your venerable chaplain to boot, 
I would not renounce my quinquetoes, my buskins, and my flourishes.” 

“You are a comedian, then, too, are you?” asked the canoness, 
with dry, cold disdain. 

“ A comedian ! a mountebank^ at your service, Uliustrissima” replied 
Anzoleto, without being in the least disconcerted. 

“Has he talent?” enquired the old Christian of Consuelo, with a 
tranquillity full of kindness and benevolence. 

“ None whatever,” replied Consuelo, looking on her adversary with 
pity. 

“ If it be so, you accuse yourself,” said Anzoleto, “ for I am your pu- 
pil. I hope, nevertheless, that I have enough,” he added in Venetian 
“ to upset your game.” 

“ It is yourself only that you will harm,” replied Consuelo, in the 
same dialect. “Evil intentions corrupt the heart, and yours will lose 
more by all this than you can make me lose in the opinion of others.” 

“ I am glad to see that you accept my challenge. It is needless to 
lower your eyes beneath the shade of your vigor, for I can see rage 
and spite sparkle in your eyes.” 

“ Alas! you can read nothing in them but deep disgust on your own 
account. I hoped I should have been able to forget that I ought to 
despise you, but you take pleasure in recalling it to my mind.” 

“ Contempt and love oftentimes go together.” 


CONSUELO. 


285 


“ In evil spirits.” 

“ In the proudest spirits — so it has been, so it shall ever be.” 

The whole dinner passed thus. When they withdrew into the 
drawing-room, the canoness, who appeared determined to amuse her- 
self with Anzoleto’s impertinence, asked him to sing something. He 
did not wait to be asked twice, and after running his fingers vigorously 
over the keys of the old groaning piano, he set up one of those ener- 
getic songs with which he was in the habit of enlivening the Count 
Zustiniani’s private suppers. The words were loose enough, but the 
canoness did not hear them, and was amused by the vigor and energy 
of the singer. Count Christian could not help admiring the fine 
voice and prodigious facility of the singer. He gave himself up M’ith 
perfect artlessness to the pleasure of listening, and when the first air 
was ended asked him for a second. Albert, who sat next to Consuelo, 
seemed entirely deaf, and did not utter a word. Anzoleto fancied 
that he was spiteful, and felt himself outdone in something. He for- 
got that it had been his intention to dismay his hosts by his musical 
improprieties, and moreover said that, whether for their innocence or 
their ignorance of the dialect, it was lost time, he gave himself up to 
the pleasure of exciting admirajtion, and sang for the pleasure of 
singing, desiring at the same time to let Consuelo see the progress 
which he had made. He had in truth gained in that order of musical 
power which nature had assigned to him. His voice had perhaps 
already lost some of its youthful freshness. Orgies and dissipation 
had robbed it of its velvet softness ; but he was more perfectly the 
master of its effects, and more skillful in overcoming the difficulties 
towards which his taste and instinct always led him. He sang well, 
and received many praises from Count Christian and the canoness; 
and also from the chaplain, who loved above all things fine strokes^ 
and who thought Consuelo’s by far too simple and too natural to be 
very scientific. “ You said that he had no talent,” said the Count to 
Consuelo. “ You are either too severe, or too modest in your opinion 
of your pupil. He has much ; and I recognise something of you in 
his singing.” 

The good Count Christian wished to efface by this little triumph of 
Anzoleto, some of the mortification which his style of conduct had 
caused his pretended sister. He laid much stress, therefore, on the 
merits of the singer; and the latter, who was by far too fond 
of praise not to be wearied of the low part he was playing, returned 
to the piano, after having observed that Count Albert was becoming 
more and more pensive. The canoness, who had a habit of falling 
asleep sometimes in the middle of long pieces of music, asked for 
another Venetian song, and this time Anzoleto made a better choice. 
He knew that popular airs were those which he sang the best. Consu- 
elo herself had not i\\e piquante accentuation of the dialect so natur- 
ally and so characteristically as he, himself the child of the languages, 
and par excellence a Swiss singer. 

He imitated, therefore, with such a grace, and such a charm, at one 
time the rude and frank manner of the fishermen of Istria, and at 
another, the spiritual and careless recklessness of the Venetian gon- 
doliers, that it was impossible not to listen to him, and look at him 
with interest. His fine face, full of play and penetration, took 
at one time the grave and proud expression, at another the rollicking 
and sportive air, of those or of these. The very bad taste of his di-ess, 
which aould be recognised as Venetian at a league’s distance, added. 


C O N S U E L O. 


28G 

if anything, to the illusion, and served his personal advantages instead 
of injuring them, as it would have done on any other occasion. Con- 
suelo, who was at first cold as mai ble, was first forced to assume 
indifference and abstraction, for emotion gained on her more and 
more every moment. Sbe.iseemed to see all Venice again in Anzoleto, 
and in that Venice all the Auzolero of old days, with his gayety, his 
innocent love, and his boyish haughtiness. Her eyes were filled with 
tears, and the merry features which excited all the rest to laughter, 
pierced her heart with the deepest tenderness. 

Af.er the songs, the Count Christian asked for chaunts. “Oh! if 
you come to that,” said Anzoleto, “I only know those which are sung 
at Venice, and they are all arranged for two voices, so that if my sis- 
ter does not choose to sing with me, I shall be unable to gratify your 
lordships.” 

Consuek) was immediately implored to sing. She resisted for a long 
time, although she felt a strong inclination to do so. ’ But at last, yield- 
ing to the entreaties of the old Christian, who had set himself to ef- 
fect a reconciliation between the brother and sister by pretending him- 
self to be reconciled, she took her seat beside Anzoleto, and began to 
sing, trembling as she did so, one of those long canticles arranged in 
two parts, divided into strophes of three verses each, which are heard 
in Venice, during periods of devotion, resounding all night long 
around the Madonnas at the crossings of the streets. Their rhythm 
is rather animated than sad, but in the monotony of their burthen, 
and in the poetry of their words, having the impress of a half pagan 
piety, there is a sweet melancholy which gains on the hearer by de- 
grees, and in the end takes full possession of him. 

Consuelo sang in a sweet and veiled voice, in imitation of the Ve- 
netian women, and Anzoleto with the slightly hoarse and guttural ac- 
cent of the young men of that country. At the same time he repro- 
duced on the piano forte a feeble, but continuous and limpid accom- 
paniment, which reminded his companion of the murmur of the wa- 
ter against the marble steps, and the whisper of the wind among the 
vine branches. She thought herself in Venice, on a fine summer’s 
night, alone at the foot of one of those chapels in the open air, shel- 
tered by arbors of the •«^ine, and illuminated by a wavering lamp re- 
flected in the gently undulating waters of the canals. Oh ! what a 
contrast between the ominous and agonizing sensations which sfie 
had experienced that very morning on listening to Albert’s violin on 
the margin of another stream, dark, stagnant, silent, crowded with 
phantoms, and that vision of Venice, with its fine, sky, with sweet mel- 
odies, with waves of azure, showing long wakes of light from the rapid- 
ly glancing flambeaux or the resplendent stars. This magnifi- 
cent spectacle Anzoleto brought back to her mind, this spectacle in 
which to her were concentraled all the ideas of liberty and of life; 
while the cavern, the fierce and fantastic strains of old time Bohemia, 
tlie bones lighted by funereal torches, and reflected in waters filled, 
perchance, with' the same lugubrious relics, and in the midst of all the 
pale and ardent face of the ascetic Albert, the thought of an unknown 
world, the apparition of a symbolical scene, and the painful sensation 
of a fascination which she could not explain, were all too much for the 
simple and peaceful soul of Consuelo. In order to enter into that re- 
gion of abstract ideas, it required her to make as great an effort as her 
imagination was capable of, but by which her whole nature was dis- 
turbed and tortured by ir. ysterious sufferings and agonising present- 


CONSUELO. 


287 

iraents. Her organization was all of the South, southern, and denied 
itself to the austere initiation of a mystic love. Albert was to her the 
genius of the North, deep, puissant, sometimes sublime, but always sad 
as the wind of icy nights and the subterranean roar of wintry torrents. 
It was the dreaming and investigating soul which interrogates and 
symbolizes all things,— the nights of storm, the savage harmonies of the 
forests, and the half-effaced inscriptions of aniique monuments. An- 
zoleto, on the contrary, was the life of the South, the matter enkin- 
dled and fertilised by the great sun, by the broad light, drawing its 
poetry only from the intensity of its own growth, aiul its piide from 
the wealth of its own organic pilnciples. Itv/as the life of sentiment, 
with its greed of enjoyment, the intellectual carele.ssness and improv- 
idence of the artist, a sort of ignorance of, or indifference to, the idea 
of good or evil, the easily-won happiness, the scorn or the impotence 
of reflection ; in a word, the enemy and the antagonist of the ideal. 

Between these two men, each of whom was the example of a type 
precisely the opposite and antipathic of the other, Consuelo had as 
little life, as little aptitude for energy or action as a body severed from 
its soul. She loved the beautiful, slie thirsted for the ideal ; Albert 
offered her and taught her these. But Albert, checked in the devel- 
opment of his genius, by something diseased in his intellect, had given 
Inmself up too much to the life of pure intellect. He knew so little 
of necessity and of real life, that he had often lost the faculty of feel- 
ing even his own existence. He did not even imagine how the omin- 
ous ideas and objects to which he had familiarised himself could, 
under the influence of love and virtue, inspire other feelings to his 
promised bride than the enthusiasm of faith, the tenderness of bliss. 
He had not foreseen, nor understood, that he was drawing her down 
into an atmosphere in which she must die as a tropical plant, in the 
twilight of the polar circles. In a word, he comprehended not the 
sort of violence which she was forced to put upon herself in order to 
identify her nature with his own. 

Anzoleto, on the contrary, wounding the soul, and revolting the in- 
tellect of Consuelo at all points, still carried in his expanded bi-east, 
wide open to the breath of the breezes of the genial South — all that 
vital air which the Flower of Spain, as he was wont to call her in past 
time, required to animate her. She found in him a whole life of sen- 
suous contemplation, animal, ignorant, and delicious — a whole world 
of tranquillity, carelessness, physical movements, uprightness without 
effort, a!id piety without reflection; in one word, almost the life of a 
bird. But is there not sornefliing of the bird in the artist, and must 
there be also some slight infusion of that cup, which is common to all 
other beings, in man himself, in order that he may be complete, and 
may bring to the best advantage the treasures of his intelligence? 

Consuelo sung in a voice still more and more tender and touching, 
givitig herself up with vague instinctive feelings to the distinctions, 
which I have drawn for her, though of course, too much at length. 
Let me be pai'doned for it. Had I not done so it would be impossible 
to conceive by what fatal fitfnlness of sentiment this y<ning girl, so 
chaste and so sincere, who hated the treacherous Anzoleto a quarter 
of an hour before, and with good reason, could forget herself to such 
a point as to listen to his voice, to feel the waving of his hair, and to 
inhale his very breath with a sensation of delight. The drawing-room 
was too large to be at any time very well lighted, as has been already 
mentioned, and the day was fast closing. The desk of the piano forte, 


288 


CONSUELO, 


on which AnzoiCto had spread open a large folio of music, concealed 
their heads from those who were sitting at a distance, and gradually 
their heads came nearer and nearer together. Anzoleto now played 
the accompaniment with one hand only, the other arm he had passed 
around the flexible waist of his formerly betrothed, and with it was 
drawing her closer to his own body. Six months of indignation and 
of grief had passed away like a dream from the mind of the young 
girl. She fancied herself at Venice; she prayed the Madonna to bless 
her love for the handsome lover whom her mother had given her, and 
who was praying beside her, hand to hand and heart to heart. Albert 
had left the room without her perceiving it, and the air became light- 
er, the twilight softer around her. Suddenly at the end of one of the 
strophes she felt the burning lips of her first lover pressed to her owm. 
She stifled a cry with difficulty, and leaning over her piano forte, burst 
into tears. 

At this moment Count Albert re-entered the room, heard her sobs, 
and saw the insulting joy of Anzoleto. The interruption of the song 
by the emotions of the young artiste did not so much surprise any 
of the other spectators of that rapid scene. No one had seen the kiss, 
and every one supposed that the recollections of her childhood, and 
her love of the art had moved her to tears. 

Count Christian was indeed somewhat vexed at this sensibility, 
which was an evidence of so much attachment for, and of so many 
regrets connected' with the very things the sacrifice of which he re- 
quired. The canoness and the chaplain were delighted, trusting that 
the sacrifice could now never be accomplished. Albert had not as yet 
thought to ask himself whether the Countess Kudolstadt would be- 
come an artiste again, or must cease to be one. He would have ac- 
cepted anything, permitted anything, nay, even demanded anything, 
provided that she could be happy and free, whether in retirement, in 
the world, or on the stage, at her own option. His want of preju- 
dices and selfishness went so far even as to the overlooking of the sim- 
plest circumstances. It never, therefore, entered his mind that Con- 
suelo would impose on herself any sacrifices on ids account, who de- 
manded none. But though he overlooked this obvious point, he yet 
saw farther, as he ever did. His eye pierced to the very heart of the 
tree, and his hand w^as laid on the worm that gnawed it. The true po- 
sition of Anzoleto with regard to Consuelo, the real object wliich he 
was pursuing, and the actual sentiment which inspired him, were re- 
vealed to him in an instant. He gazed attentively at this man, to 
whom he had in every respect an antipathy, and on whom he had 
hitherto avoided to cast his eyes, because he would not hate Con- 
suelo’s brother. He now saw in him an audacious, desperate, and 
dangerous lover. The noble Albert thought not of himself; no sus- 
picion, no jealousy entered his clear mind. The danger was all Con- 
suelo’s; for at a single glance of his deep and lustrous eye, that man 
w'hose feeble sight and delicate vision could not brook the sun, and 
could scarce distinguish forms and colors, read the very bottom 
of the souls, and penetrated, by the mysterious power of divination, 
into the most secret thoughts of villains and impostors. 1 will not 
attempt to explain by any natural means this strange gift which lie 
certainly at times possessed. He was possessed of certain faculties— 
not yet explored to the bottom, or defined by science— utterly incom- 
prehensible to all those around, as they are to the historian who now 
narrates them, and who, in relation to matters of that nature, is no 


C O N S U E L O. 


289 

more enlightened after the lapse of a hundred years, than were the 
great intellects of his century. Albert, however, when he saw the 
vain and selfish spirit of his rival, said not to himself, “ Lo! ray ene- 
my!” but he said, “ Lo! the enemy of Consuelol ” and without suf- 
fering his discovery to become apparent, he promised himself that he 
Would watch over her, and preserve her. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

So soon as Consuelo found a favorable moment she went out of the 
saloon, and passed into the garden. The sun had set, and the first 
stars sparkled white and serene in a sky still rosy in the west, already 
black to the eastward. The young artist sought to inspire tranquillity 
of mind and calmness from the pure cool air of that early autumn 
evening. Her bosom was oppressed with voluptuous languor, and 
yet she felt remorse for it and summoned to the aid of her will all 
the strength of her spirit. She might have said to herself, “ Can I 
not discover whether I love or hate f ” She trembled as if she had 
felt her courage forsaking her at this, the most dangerous crisis of her 
life ; and for the first time she did not find within herself that dis- 
tinctness of the first impulse, that holy confidence in her intentions 
which had always upheld her in the time of trial. She had left the 
drawing-room in order to escape the fascination which Anzoleto ex- 
ercised over her, and she had felt at the same moment a vague wish 
that he should follow her. The leaves were beginning to fall, and 
when the hem of her vestment rustled against them, she fancied that 
she heard his steps behind her, and, ready to fly, not daring to return, 
she remained rooted to the place where she stood, as it were by 
magic. 

Some one was indeed following her, but without daring or desiring 
to be discovered. It was Albert. A stranger to all those small dis- 
simulations which are called social proprieties, and feeling elevated 
above all false shame by the greatness of his love, he had left the 
apartment a moment after her, resolved to protect her, without her 
own knowledge, and to prevent her intended seducer from rejoining 
her. Anzoleto had also observed his artless ardor, without being 
m’uch alarmed by it. He had seen too clearly the agitation of Con- 
suelo not to look upon his victory as certain; and, thanks to the au- 
dacious folly which many easy conquests had awakened in him, he 
determined no longer to carry it with a rough hand, no longer to pro- 
voke his intended victim, and no longer to surprise the family by his 
rudeness of demeanor. “ It is no longer necessary to hurry myself so 
much,” he said. “ Anger may give her strength. An air of grief 
and dejection will make her forget the relics of her anger against me. 
Her spirit is proud, let us attack her senses. She is certainly less 
strict here than she w'as at Venice; she has become civilized in these 
regions. What matters it whether my rival be happy a day longer or 
no? To-morrow she shall be mine — perhaps this very night. Wo 
shall soon see. Let me not, however, drive her through fear into any 
desperate resolution. She has not betrayed me to them. Whether 
from pity or fear, she has not denied my part as brother; and 

. IS 


290 


C O N S U E L O. 


her great relations, in spite of all my buffooneries, seem deter- 
mined to support me for love of her. I w'ill change my tactics, then ; 
I have been quicker than 1 hoped; I can afford now to halt awhile.’^ 

Count Christian, the canoness, and the chaplain were, therefore, 
much surprised at seeing him suddenly assume excellent manners, a 
modest tone, and a gentle and pleasing demeanor. He had the tact, 
moreover, to complain to the chaplain of a bad headache, and to add 
that being naturally very sober, the Hungary wine, the strengUi of 
which he had not anticipated during dinner, had risen to his head. 
A moment liad not passed before this confession was transmitted in 
German to the canoness and to the count, who accepted that specios 
of justification with ready kindness. Wenceslawa was at first less in- 
dulgent, but the pains which the comedian took to please her, the 
respectful praises which he took occasion to offer her, on the subject 
of the advantages of nobility, the admiration which he displayed for 
the order established ih the castle, soon disarmed her benevolent soul, 
incapable in any case of bearing rancor. She listened to him at first 
indolently, hut ended by conversing with him with interest, and by 
agreeing with her brother, that he was an excellent and cIi arming 
young man. 

When Consuelo returned from her walk, an hour had elapsed, dur- 
ing which Anzoleto had not lost his time. He had in fact so well re- 
covered the good graces of the family, that he had no doubt of his 
ability to remain as many days in the castle as he shoidd find neces- 
sary to the accomplishment of his ends. He did not indeed imder- 
stand what the old count said to Consuelo in German, but he guessed 
from the eyes that were directed towards himself, and from the sur- 
prise and embari-assmetU of the young girl herself, that Count Chris- 
tian had been praising liim to the skies, and perl)aps scolding her a 
little for showing so little interest in so amiable a brother. 

“ Come, signora,*' said the canoness, who, notwithstanding her little 
grudge against La Porporina, could not refrain from wishing her 
well, and who thought, moreover, that she was doing an act of duty, 
“yon sulked with your brother a little at dinner, and it is true that 
at the time he deserved it; but lie has proved himself better than we 
at first expected to find him. He loves you dearly, and has said a 
hundred kind things of you to us, with every expression of affection, 
and even of respect. Be not then more severe than we. I am sure 
if he remembers that he drank a little too much at dinner, he is 
deeply grieved at it, especially on your account. Speak to him, there- 
fore, and do not be cold to one wdio is so near to you by the ties qf 
blood. For my own part, although my brother, tlie Baron Frederick, 
who Avas a great torment in his younger days, often annoyed me 
greatly, I could never remain at variance with him an hour.” 

“ Consuelo, who dared neither to confirm nor to destroy the error 
of the good lady, stood aghast at this new attack on the part of An- 
zoleto, all Avhose power and capacity she now fully appreciated. 

“ You do not bear what my sister is saying,” said Count Christian 
to the young man, “ but I will translate it to you in two minutes. 
She is blaming Consuelo for assuming too much of the airs of a little 
mother over you, and I am sure Consuelo is dying to make her peace 
with you. Embrace one another tlien, my children. Come, young 
man, it is for you to take the first step, and if you have at any time 
behaved ill to her, of wiiich ill you now repent, 1 doubt not that she 
will pardon you, on your expressing your sorrow.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


291 

Anzoleto did not suffer this advice to be given to him twice over. 
He seized the trembling hand of Consnelo, who did not dare to with- 
draw it from him. “ Yes,” said he, “ I liave committed great wrongs 
against her, and I repent the more bitterly that I have found that all 
my endeavors to pardon myself against her, have only rendered me 
more unhappy than before. She knows this well, and if she had not 
a heart of iron, as proud as strength itself, she would have understood 
that my remorse has already punished me enough. Pardon me then, 
my sister, and restore me your love, or I will instantly go forth, and 
carry my despair, my solitude, and my weariness over the whole world. 
A stranger everywhere, without stay on which to lean, counsel by 
which to rule myself, affection which to return, I shall be no longer 
able to put my trust in God, and my bewilderment and my errors will 
rest upon your head.” 

This homily affected the count deeply, and drew tears from the 
eyes of the good canoness. 

“ You hear what he says, Porporina,” she exclaimed, “ and it is all 
very good, and very true. Monsieur chaplain, you ought to command 
Consnelo, in the name of holy religion, to be reconciled with her 
brother.” 

The chaplain was now about to interfere; but Anzoleto did not 
wait for discourse, but seizing Consuelo in his arms, in spite of her 
resistance and her fears, embraced her passionately under the very 
beard of the chaplain, to the great edification of the bystanders. 
Consuelo, entirely shocked by this last piece of impudent imposture, 
resolved to endure it no longer. “ Hold ! ” she cried, “ Monsieur le 
Comte ! Listen to me ! ” she was about to reveal the whole fraud, 
when Albert entered the room. At the instant the idea of Zdenko 
returned to freeze up with terror her soul, w'hich was on the point of 
bursting its bonds. This implacable protector of Consuelo might 
well determine to free her from this persecutor without any disturb- 
ance, or any deliberation, should she once invoke his protection. She 
turned pale, cast a glance of agonising reproach on Ajizoleto, and the 
words expired on her tongue. As the clock struck seven, they sat 
down to table for supper. If the idea of these frequent meals takes 
away the appetite of ray fair and delicate readers, I will merely ob- 
serve that it was not at tire time, or in the country of which I write, 
to abstain from eating. I believe I have said so already. At Riesen- 
berg they ate plentifully, slowly, and often ; indeed, almost one half 
the day was passed at table; and I confess that, to Consuelo, accus- 
tomed as she had been from childhood upward to live daily on a few 
spoonsful of boiled rice, these Homeric repasts did appear insuffer- 
ably long. For the first time, she knew not whether this supper last- 
ed an hour, an instant, or a century. She had no more actual life in 
her system than Albert when he was in his solitary cave. She almost 
fancied she was drunken with wine, so strangely did shame, self- 
reproach, love, and terror, agitate her whole being. She ate not. she 
saw not, she heard not aught that passed around her. Astounded, as 
one who feels himself rolling over the brink of a precipice, and who 
sees the feeble branches which alone intercept his fall, breaking under 
his grasp, she looked into the abyss which lay before her, and her 
brain swam with a wild vertigo. 

Anzoleto sat beside her; he touched her garment, he pressed his 
elbow with convulsive movements against her elbow — his foot against 
her foot. In his eagerness to help her, he met her hands with his 


292 


CONSUELO. 


own, and held them for a second in his clasp, but that rapid and fiery 
touch contained a whole century of voluptuous pleasure. He utter- 
ed to her, aside, words which seemed to choke, darted at her glances 
which seemed to drown. He took advantage of opportunities, brief 
as lightning, to exchange glances with her, and to touch that portion 
of the crystal which her lips had touched ‘with his own. And all the 
time he knew that while to her he was all fire, he was all ice to the 
rest of the company. He conducted himself admirably, spoke elo- 
quently, treated the chaplain with respect, offered him the choicest 
morsels of the joints, which he took care to carve with the dexterity 
and grace of a guest long accustomed to good cheer. He had already 
observed that the holy man was a gourmand, and that his shyness in- 
flicted considerable privations on him in this respect; and the priest 
found himself so well cared for, and his preferences so justly observed, 
that he began to wish that this new and dexterous carver could be 
domesticated for life in the Giants’ Castle. 

It was observed that Anzoleto drank nothing but water, and when 
the chaplain, desirous of returning his good offices, asked him to take 
wine, he replied aloud, so that all might hear him, “ A thousand 
thanks! I will take no more. Your good wine is a traitor, by whose 
aid a while since I sought to forget my griefs ; now I have no griefs 
more, and return to water, my habitual drink, and my loyal friend.” 

They prolonged the evening to a later hour than usual. Anzoleto 
sang again, and now he sang alone for the ears of Consuelo. He 
chose the favorite airs of the old composers, which she had taught 
him herself; and he sang them with all the care, all the purity of 
taste, and the delicacy of intuition which she had been wont to re- 
quire of him. By doing so he was recalling to her mind her dearest 
meriiories, both of her love and her art. 

At the moment when they were about to separate for the night, he 
took an opportunity to say to her in a whisper, “ I know which is 
your apartment. They have given me one on the same gallery. At 
midnight I shall be at the door on my knees, and there I shall remain 
prostrate until the break of day. Do not refuse to listen to me for a 
moment. I do not desire to win your love again, I do not deserve it. 
1 know that you can love me no longer, that another is the happy 
man, and that I must depart. I shall depart with death in my heart, 
and the relics of my life are vowed to the muses. But do not drive 
me hence without saying farewell, without uttering one word of pity. 
If you refuse me I will go hence at break of day, and that will be the 
last of me forever.” 

“ Speak not thus, Anzoleto. We may well, as we ought to do, part 
here. Say farewell to each other for ever. I pardon you — I wish 
you ” 

“ A pleasant journey, doubtless! ” he replied, ironically ; but then, 
immediately resuming his hypocritical tone— “ You are pitiless,” he 
said, “Consuelo. You wish me to be destroyed utterly; you wish 
that no last remnant of good, no single good sentiment, no touch of 
better hope should remain to me. What fear you? Have I not 
proved to you a hundred times my respect and the purity of my love ? 
When one loves hopelessly is not he a slave, and do not you know the 
magical words which tames and fetters me ? In the name of Heaven ! 
if you are not the mistress of this man whom you are about to marry, 
if he is not the partner of your chamber, and the inevitable compaa- 
Ion of all your nights ” 


C 0 N S U E L o. 293 

“He is not so, he never was sol” exclaimed Consuelo, with the 
proud accent of injured innocence. 

She had done better to suppress that impulse of well-founded pride, 
which was, however, too mean for the occasion. Anzoleto was not a 
coward, but he loved life, and had he thought to find a resolute de- 
fender in Consuelo’s chamber, he would have remained very quietly 
in his own. The accent of truthfulness, however, with which the 
young girl spoke, entirely emboldened him. 

In that count,” said he, “ I shall not endanger your prospect. I 
will be so prudent, so careful. I will tread so lightly, and speak so 
low, that your reputation shall not be stained. Moreover, am 1 not 
your brother, and what is there extraordinary in my coming to take 
leave of you, when I set forth before daybreak ? ” 

“No, no; do not come!” cried Consuelo, terrified; “Count 
Albert’s apartment is very near to mine ; perhaps he has already di- 
vined everything. Anzoleto, if you so expose yourself, I will not answer 
for your life ; I speak seriously to you, and my blood freezes in my 
veins.” 

And in truth, Anzoleto felt that her hand, which he held within 
his own, had become as cold as marble. 

“ If you raise discussions, if you keep me parleying at the door, you 
will expose my life,” he said, with a smile; “but if your door be 
open, and our kisses silent, you risk nothing. Remember how many 
nights w’e have spent together at the Corte Minelli without awaken- 
ing one of the numerous neighbors. As to me, if there be no ob- 
stacle but the jealousy of the count, and no other danger than 
death ” 

At this moment Consuelo saw the eye of Count Albert, which was 
in general so vague and wandering, assume a clear and piercing depth, 
as it was fixed upon Anzoleto. He could not hear what was pass- 
ing, but he seemed to read it with his eyes. She withdrew her hand 
from that of Anzoleto, saying, in a broken voice, “ Ah, if you love me, 
brave not the ire of that terrible man 1 ” 

“ Is it for yourself that you are afraid?” asked Anzoleto. 

“ No, But for every one who approaches me with threats.” 

“ And for every one, doubtless, who adores you. Well, be it so. To 
die at your feet, to die before your eyes were all that I ask. I will be 
at your door at midnight: resist me, and you will but accelerate my 
doom.” 

“ You set off to-morrow, and do you take no leave of any person? ” 
asked Consuelo, who saw him bow’ to the count and the canoness, 
without saying anything of his departure. 

“ Of no one,” he replied; “ for they would seek to detain me, and 
feeling everything conspiring to prolong my agony, I should yield. 
You will make my excuses and adieux to them. Orders are given to 
my guide to have the horses ready at four in the morning.” 

This last assertion was scarcely the whole truth. The singular glan- 
ces which Albert had cast on him for several hours had not escaped 
Anzoleto’s penetration. He had resolved to dare all things, but he 
held himself ready for flight in case of any untoward circumstance. 
His horses were already saddled in the stable, and his guide was under 
orders not to go to bed. 

When she returned to her own apartment, Consuelo was in a state 
of real consternation. She was determined not to receive Anzoleto, 
and at the same time she feared lest he should be prevented coming. 


294 


CONSUELO. 


Now that double sentiment, false yet insurmountable, tormented her 
mind, and arrayed her heart against her conscience. Never had she 
felt so unhappy, so unprotected, so utterly alone on the face of the 
earth. “Oh, Porpora, my master, where art thou?” she cried. 
“ Thou alone art able to deliver me; thou alone knowest my sorrows, 
and the perils into which I have fallen. Thou, alone, art harsh, stern, 
and distrustful, as a lather should be, in order to rescue me from this 
abyss into which I am falling! But have I no friends around me? 
Have not I a father in Count Christian ? Have I not a mother in the 
canoness, if I had but the courage to brave her prejudices and address 
myself to her heart? And is not Albert, on the instant, my support, 
my brother, my husband, if I consent to speak but one word ? Oh, 
yes! He it is that should be my savior, yet I fear and repel him ! And 
yet I must go and find them all three,” she continued, rising and walk- 
ing rapidly to and fro. “ I must attach myself to them, I must throw 
myself into their protecting arms, shelter myself under the wings of 
these my guardian angels. Rest, dignity, and honor dw'ell with them ; 
misery and despair await me in the person of Anzoleto! Oh, yes — I 
must go and confess to them all that has passed during this hideous 
day. I must attach myself to them by an oath, I must say aloud that 
irrevocable yes, which shall set an invincible barrier between myself 
and my torturer. I will go and do so.” 

And then, instead of going, she fell back into her chair, half faint- 
ing, and wept painfully over her departed peace and her broken 
energy. 

“ And yet,” she continued, “ how can I tell them yet another false- 
hood ? How can I offer to them a girl half bewildered, a wife half 
faithless? For in my heart 1 am such, and the mouth which should 
swear eternal fidelity to one man is newly soiled by the kiss of 
another; and my heart throbs wildly at the recollection! Ah! my 
very love for the base Anzoleto is changed no less than he. It is no 
longer that tranquil and holy affection with which I slept so happily 
under the shelter of those wings which my mother outspread from 
the overarching skies to shield me. It is a fascination base and un- 
true as the being who inspires it. There is no longer anything great 
or true in my soul. False to myself this morning, I have been false 
to others, and bow shall I avoid being false to them forever? Present 
or absent, Anzoleto will be ever before my eyes; the mere thought of 
being separated from him to-morrow fills me with anguish ; and on 
the bosom of another it is of him alone that I should dream. What 
shall I do — what will become of me? ” 

The houi- approached Avith hideous rapidity, and yet how slowly. 
“ I will see him,” she said again. “ I will tell him that I hate him, 
that I despise him, that I will see him no more. And yet, no; I am 
again deceiving myself: I should not tell him so, or if I did, it would 
be only to retract a moment later. I am no longer sure now of my 
own virtue. He believes not in it, he will respect me no longer, anil 
I — I can no longer put trust in myself— no longer put trust in any- 
thing. I shall betray myself through terror yet. more than through 
weakness. Oh, rather let me die than thus fall from my own esteem, 
and let the cunning and the profligacy of another triumph over the 
holy instincts and the noble interests with which my Creator Iramed 
me.” 

She went to the window, and for a time felt determined on casting 
herself headlong, to escape the death of infamy into which she imag- 


V 0 Ts' B u v: 1. f>. 


295 


(r.od luM'st ir on llie point of fallin". As sho stiairj^led anainst that 
awful temptation, she considered the various means of safety winch 
were left to her Solar as material means, she lacked none for she 
had hcgun by bi^lting the door by wdhch Anzoleto might have gained 
a^lmittance; but she only half knew' that coid and selfish individual, 
and having seen proofs of his physical courage, she knew not that he 
was utterly destitute of the moral courage which leads men to run 
the risk of death for the indulgence of their passions. She thought 
that he wa)uld still dare to come to her door, that he w'ould insist on 
being heard, that he wmuld make a noise, and she knew also that a 
bi'eath w'ould awaken Albert. Adjoining to her apartment there was 
a clo'^et, containing a secret stair, as there was to almost every apart- 
ment in the castle; but that staircase had its egress on the low'er 
floor, within the chamber of the canoncss. It w’as the only refuge 
she could tliink of from the impudent audacity of Anzoleto; and in 
order to have it opened to her, it w’ould be necessary to confess every- 
thing, even befijrehand, in order to prevent an outcry and bustle, 
whicli, if suddenly alarmed, the good Wenceslavva would be very 
likely to protract. Again, there w'as the garden, but if Anzoleto, 
w'ho seemed to have made himself acquainted wMth every part of the 
castle, should himself repair thither, that were but to accelerate her 
ruin. 

While she thus pondered, she saw from the window' of her closet, 
w'hich looked out upon the stable-yard, that there w'as a light in the 
stables; and she obseiwed a man going in and out of the stables, w'ith- 
out alarming any of the other servants, and appearing to be engaged 
in preparations for departure. She recognised him by his gar.b as Anzo- 
leto's guide, harnessing his horses agreeably to his instructions; and 
she also observed a light in the draw'bridge-keeper’s lodge, and 
thought rightly enough that he had been informed by the guide of 
their intended departure, the hour of w'hich w'as not as yet deter- 
mined. While she observed these details, and abandoned herself to a 
thousand conjectures, a thousand projects, Consuelo fell upon a very 
strange, and no less rash device. But as it offered her an intermedi- 
ate resource between the two e.Ttreme counsels that lay before her, 
and opened a new view of the limits of her future life, she regarded it 
as an actual inspiration of Heaven. She had no time to examine 
means at her leisure, and reflect on their consequences. Some ap- 
peared to present themselves to her as the effects of a providential 
chance, others, she thought, might easily be turned against herself. 
She began then very hastily to write as follows, for the castle clock 
W'as already striking eleven. 

“ Albekt — I am compelled to depart. I esteem you with my whole 
soul, as you well know: but there is in my very existence, contra- 
dictory, rebellious, painful principles, which I can explain neither to 
you nor to myself. If I could see you at this moment, I should tell 
you that I put my trust in you, that I surrender to you the care of 
my future life, that I consent to become your wife. Perhaps I should 
teil you that I wish to become so. And yet I should mislead you, or 
take a rash oath ; for my heart is not sufficiently purified of its ancient 
love to belong to you, w'ithout apprehension, and to deserve yours 
without remorse. I fly. I go to Vienna to meet Porpora. or to wait 
liis coming, since he must needs arrive in a few days, as his letter to 
your father recently announced. I swear to you, that iny object in 


CONSUELO. 


296 

seeking him out is to find in his presence hatred and oblivion of the 
past, and the hope of a futurity of which, believe me, you are the 
corner-stone. Follow me not, I forbid you, in the name of that futu- 
rity which your impatience would compromise, perchance destroy. 
Aw'ait me, and keep the oath you made me, that you would not 

' return without me to , you understand me! Have trust in me, I 

command you, for I depart with the holy hope of returning to you, or 
summoning you to me ere long. At this moment I, am in a hideous 
dream ; I fancy that were I by myself I should awaken worthy of you. 
I do not desire that my brother should follow me; I intend to deceive 
him, and suffer him to take a road different from that which I shall 
follow. By all that you hold dearest in the world, throw no obstacles 
in the way of my underXaking, and believe me to be sincere. It is 
thus that I shall learn whether you truly love me, and w'hether I may, 
without blushing, sacrifice my poverty to your wealth, my obscurity 
to your rank, my ignorance to the science of your intellect. To prove 
to you that I do not go without the intention to return, will say not, 
‘ Fare-you-well, Albert: ’ but ‘ we shall meet again ; ’ and I charge you 
with the task of rendering your dear aunt propitious to our union, 
and of preserving to me the favor of your father, the best and most 
respectable of men. Tell him the true state of all this. I will write 
to you from Vienna.” 

The hope of convincing and tranquillizing a man so much in love 
as Albert, by such a letter, was rash, undoubtedly, but not unreason- 
able. Consuelo felt, w'hile she was writing to him, the energy of his 
will and the uprightness of his character. All that she wrote to him 
she indeed thought; all that she declared her intention of doing, she 
intended to do. She had faith in the extraordinary penetration of 
Albert, almost in his second sight; she did not believe herself capable 
of deceiving him ; she felt certain that he would believe her, and that, 
taking liis character into consideration, he would punctually obey 
her. At this moment she judged of circumstances, and of Albert 
himself, as highly as he would have done. After folding her letter, 
without sealing it, she threw her travelling cloak over her shoulders, 
wrapped her head in a thick black veil, took with her what little 
money she possessed, and a slender chajige of linen, and going down 
stairs on tip-toe, with incredible precaution passed along the lower 
floors, reached Count Christian’s apartment, introduced herself even 
into his oratory, whither she knew lie came at six o’clock every morn- 
ing. Here she laid the letter on the desk whereon he always placed 
his book, before kneeling on the ground; and then passing onward to 
the great court, without awakening any one, walked directly to the 
stables. 

The guide, who was not in the most comfortable state of mind at 
finding himself alone at the dead of night in the great castle, with all 
the world sleeping like stones around him, was very much terrified at 
first, on seeing this black woman advance upon him like a spectre. 
He retreated to tlie very bottom of the stable w ithout daring either 
to cry out or to address her. That was precisely what Consuelo de- 
sired ; as soon as she saw that she was out of eyesight and earshot — 
she was aware, by the way, that neither Albert’s nor Anzoleto’s win- 
dows looked out upon the court— she said to him, “ I am the sister of 
the young man whom you guided hither this morning. He is about 
to carry me off. We have just decided on it together. Put a latly’b 


CONSUELO. 


297 

saddle on my horse— there are several here. Follow me to Tiista, 
without saying a single word, and without taking a single step that 
the people of the castle shall be able to hear. You shall be paid 
double. Why do you look astonished ? Make haste. So soon as you 
shall arrived at that town, you will come back here with the same 
horses to fetch my brother.”- 

The guide shook his head. 

“You shall be paid treble.” 

The guide made a sign that he consented. 

“ And you shall bring him on at full speed to Tusta, where I will 
await you ! ” 

The guide shook his head. 

“ You shall have four times as much, the last, as the first time.” 

The guide obeyed. In a moment the horse which Consuelo was to 
ride was equipped with a lady’s saddle. “ Give me your hat, and 
throw your cloak over mine. It is but for the moment.” 

“ I understand ; to deceive the porter; that is easy enough. You 
are not the first young lady I have helped to carry off. Your lover 
will pay well for it — for all you are his sister,” he added with a know 
ing expression. 

You will be well paid by me, in the first instance. Silence! Are 
you ready ? ” 

“ I am on horseback. Go on before me, and make them lower the 
draw-bridge.” « 

They passed it at a foot’s pace, made a circuit, in order to avoid 
riding under the castle walls, and in a quarter of an hour reached the 
great high road. Consuelo had never in her life been on horseback 
before. Fortunately, though strong and active, the animal on which 
she was mounted was good-tempered. His master animated him by 
chirrupping, and he fell into a firm and steady gallop, which, through 
woods and over heath-clad moors, brought our heroine to her journey’s 
end within two hours. Consuelo kept hold of her bridle, and dis- 
mounted at the entrance of the town. 

“ I do not wish to be seen here,” said she to the guide, as she hand- 
ed him the price agreed upon for herself and Anzoleto. “ I will pass 
through the town on foot, and will procure from some people whom 
I know, a carriage to convey me on the route tow'ard Prague. I 
shall travel with all speed, in order to get as far as possible from the 
country where my face is known, before daylight. As soon as it is 
day, I shall stop and wait for my brother.” 

“ But where w'ill you do so? ” 

“ I cannot say. But tell him that it wdll be at a post-house. Let 
him ask no questions until he is thirty miles from this place, and then 
let him ask everywhere for Madame Wolf. It is the first name I can 
think of; do not forget it. There is but one road to Prague, is 
there ? ” 

“ Only one, until you ” 

“ That is well. Stop in the suburbs to feed your horses, and try to 
hinder them from seeing the woman’s saddle — throw your cloak over 
it, and set out again. Wait— one wmrd more. Tell my brother not 
to hesitate, but to steal away without being seen ; his life is in danger 
in the castle.” 

“ Heaven go wdth you, pretty lady,” replied the guide, who had 
found time to roll the money w’hich he had received, between his 
fingeis, and to estimate its value. “ If my poor horses be used up by 
it, I am glad that I have been of service to you.” 


298 


C () N S U E L O. 


Having given his horses some oats, and administered to himself a 
copious draught of hjulromel, as lie said, in order to open his eyes, 
the guide took his road back toward Riesenberg, without especially 
hurrying himself, as Consuelo had hoped and foreseen, even at the 
very time when she was urging him to use all possible despatch; in- 
volving his brain as lie went in every sort of wild conjecture concern- 
ing the romantic adventure in which he had been engaged, and half 
inclined to believe that his late travelling companion had been no 
other than the far-famed Castle Ghost, the black phantom of the 
Schreckenstein. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

Anzolkto had not failed to rise at midnight, to take his stiletto, 
perfume himself, and put out his light. But when he thought to open 
his door without making the least noise — for he already remarked 
that the lock was easy, and played gently — he was astonished to find 
that the key was not susceptible of the slightest movement. He 
strained his fingers, and exerted all his strength in vain, even at the 
risk of awaking every on^in the house, by shaking the door too hard. 
All was useless. There was no other issue to his room; the window 
looked over the gardens from a height of fifty feet, the walls perfectly 
bare and unscaleable. The very thought of the attempt made him 
dizzy. 

This is not the work of chance,” said Anzoleto, after having 
again vainly attempted to open the door. “ Whether it be Consuelo 
— and that would be a good symptom, for fear betrays the conscious- 
ness of weakness — or Albert, they shall pay me for it, both at the 
same time.” 

He endeavored thereupon to go to sleep again ; but spite prevented 
him, and perhaps also a certain sentiment not far removed from fear. 
If Albert was the author of this precaution, he alone of all in the 
house, had not been taken in by his pretended relationship with Con- 
suelo. Siie, moreover, had been really alarmed when she warned 
him to beware of that terrible man. Anzoleto endeavored vainly to 
argue himself into the belief that, being mad, the young count had 
no power of connecting his ideas, or that, being of so high birth, he 
would decline, in accordance with the prejudices of the time, to en- 
gage with an actor in an affair of honor. But all these arguments 
failed to reassure him, for Albert, if insane at all, had shown himself 
perfectly tranquil, and in all respects master of himself; and as to 
his prejudices, they could not be very deeply rooted, if he could think 
of marrying an actress. Anzoleto, therefore began to fear seriously 
that he should have a quarrel to settle with him before his departure, 
and that some bad business would occur, ending in a clear loss. This 
termination he regarded, however, as disgraceful rather than danger- 
ous; for he had learned to handle the sword, and flattered himself 
that he could hold his own against any man, noble or not. Neverthe- 
less, he felt himself ill at ease, and he did not sleep. 

Toward five in the morning, he fancied he heard steps in the pas- 
sage, and a short time afterward, the door of his room was opened. 


CONSUELO. 


299 

with some noise and some difficulty. It was not yet clear day, and 
seeiiiff a man come into his room with small ceremony, Anzoleto 
thought that the decisive moment had arrived. He sprang up, stil- 
letto in hand, with the bound of a wild bull; but he almost instantly 
recognised in the morning twilight the figure of his guide making him 
signs to speak low, and make no noise. 

“ What do you mean by these grimaces, you fool ? and what do 
you want with me?” asked Anzoleto, angrily. “How did you con- 
trive to get in here ? ” 

“ How, my good sir? Why, by the door, to be sure.” 

“ The door was locked.” 

“ But you had left the key on the outside.” 

“ Impossible! There it is on my table.” 

“ It is very odd, but there are two.” 

‘ And who can have played me the trick of locking me up here 
Was it you, when you came for my poilmantcau ? ” 

“ I swear it was not I ! And I have, not even seen a key.” 

“ It must have l)een the devil, then ! But what do you come hither 
for, with that frightened and mysterious face? I have not called for 
you.” 

“ You do not give me time to speak. You see me, however, and 
know, doubtless, what I want. The signora reached Tusta, and in 
compliance with her orders, here am I with my horses, ready to con- 
vey you thither.” 

Some minutes passed before Anzoleto could be brought to compre- 
hend what was going forward. But he guessed at the truth quickly 
enough to prevent his guide, whose superstitious fears in regard to the 
devil were passing away with the gloom of night, from falling back 
upon his terrors. He had began by examining and sounding all the 
money which Consuelo had given him upon the pavement of the 
stable, and he held himself perfectly satisfied with his infernal bar- 
gain. Anzoleto now understood at a glance, and supposing that the 
fugitive might have been, on her side, so far watched that she could 
not inform him of her resolution ; that, menaced and driven to ex- 
tremities by her lover’s jealousy, she had seized a propitious moment 
to rid herself of his authority, had escaped, and taken to the country. 
“At all events,” said he, “there is no time for doubt or hesitation. 
The instructions which she has sent me by this man, are clear enough. 
Victoria! If I can now only get out of this place to overtake her 
without having to cross swords, all will be well.” 

He armed himself to the teeth, and while he was dressing in all 
haste, he sent the guide before him to see that the ways were clear. 
On his reply that all the world appeared to be sound asleep, with the 
exception of the keeper of the drawbridge, who had just lowered it 
for him, Anzoleto descended stealthily, mounted his horse, and only 
saw a single groom in the court, whom he called up to him, and gave 
him some money, in order that his departure might not bear the re- 
semblance of a flight. 

“By Saint Wenceslaus! ” said the man, “this is a strange affair. 
The horses are covered with sweat on their first coming out of the 
stable, as if they had been ridden hard all night.” 

“It is your black devil who has been currying them in the night,^’ 
replied the guide. 

“It must be so, I think,” said the other; “ for I heard a hideous 
noise in this direction all night long. I did not dare to come to see, 


800 


C O N S U E L O. 


but I heard the portcullis creak, and the drawbridge fall just as clearly 
as I see you at this moment, so much so that I thought it was yon, 
W'ho were going, and hardly expected to see you here this morning,” 

At the drawbridge the observation was repeated.— ” Is your lord- 
ship then double? ” asked the porter, rubbing his eyes. “ I saw you 
set forth about midnight, and now you are setting forth again.” 

“You have been dreaming, my good man,” said Anzoleto, making 
a present to him also. “ I should not have gone without asking you 
to drink my health.” 

“Your lordship does me too much honor,” said the porter, who 
murdered Italian a little. “All one for that! ” he added to the guide 
in their own tongue. “ I have seen two of them to-night.” 

“ Take care then that you don’t see four to-morrow night; ” replied 
the guide, following Anzoleto across the bridge at a gallop. “The 
black devil plays just such tricks to folks who sleep like you.” 

Anzoleto, well warned and well instructed by his guide, speedily 
reached Tusta. He passed through it after having dismissed his man 
and hired post-horses, abstained from asking any questions until he 
had travelled ten leagues, and at the place so indicated on stopping to 
breakfast, he enquired for Madam Wolf, whom he expected to find 
there with a carriage. No one could give him any intelligence of her, 
and for a right good reason. There was but one Madam Wolf in the 
place, but she had resided in the house fifty years, and kept a millin- 
er’s shop. Anzoleto worn out and exhausted, fancied that Consuelo 
must have feared to halt so soon. He asked to hire a carriage, but 
could not find one. lu spite of his teeth he was compelled again to 
take horse, and to pursue his way at a hard gallop. He fancied it im- 
possible but that he must overtake the longed-for carriage at every 
step, into wliicli he could spring, and compensate himself for all his 
fatigues; but he met very few travellers, and in none of the carriages 
did he see Consuelo. At length overcome with weariness, and find- 
ing it impossible to hire a cai riage any where, he determined to stop, 
mortally annoyed, and to wait in a small hamlet by the roadside, for 
Consuelo to overtake him; for he had now made up his mind that he 
must have passed her on the road. He had plenty of time during all 
the remainder of that day, and all the following night, to curse the 
roads and inns in general, and jealous persons and women in particu- 
lar. On the following day he found a public conveyance travelling to 
the northward, and proceeded, unhappily enough, on the road toward 
Prague. We will leave liim pressing on toward the north — a prey to 
real rage, and to desperate impatience blended with hope, — in order 
to return ourselves for a few minutes to the castle, and to see the 
efiect of Cousuelo’s departure on its inhabitants. 

It may well be believed that Count Albert was no better able to 
sleep, than the two other persons engaged in that singular adventure. 
After having provided himself with a master-key to Anzoleto’s apart- 
ment, he had locked him in from without, and felt no more uneasiness 
as to his proceedings— well knowing that unless Consuelo lierself 
should do so, no one else would go to his delivery. In regard to the 
former contingency, the very idea of which made him shudder, Albert 
had the excessive delicacy not to attempt any imprudent discovery. 
“If she loves him to that degree,” he thought, “it is not for me tc 
strive against it. I have only to let my lot be accomplished. I shall 
not have long to wait, for she is secure; and to-morrow she will open- 
'y refuse the oilers I made her to-day. If she is only persecr.ted and 


CONSUELO. 


301 

threatened by this dangerous man, — at all events she is safe now from 
his pursuit, for one night at least. Now, whatever smothered sounds 
I may hear around me, I will not stir. Never will 1 play the base part 
of a spy; nor will I inflict on the unhappy girl the agony of shame, by 
appearing before her without being called for. No, I will not play the 
coward part of a spy, nor of one jealously suspicious, since up to this 
time her refusals and irresolution, give me no claim upon her whatso- 
ever. I know but one thing consolatory to ray honor, though alarm- 
ing to my love— that I shall not be deceived. Soul of her 1 adore— 
thou who dwellest at one time in the bosom of the most perfect of 
women, and in the heart of the universal God, if, through the myste- 
ries and shadows of the human thought, you can read my feelings at 
this moment, thine inward sentiment will tell thee that I love too 
much not to believe thee ! ” 

And courageously and religiously Albert kept the engagement 
which he had taken within himself, and although he thought he heard 
Consuelo’s steps, as she passed along the lower floor at the time of her 
flight, as well as some inexplicable noise in the direction of the port- 
cullis, he remained quiet, though in agony, praying, and holding his 
hands clasped over his breast, as if to hinder his heart from bursting 
its confiiiPment. When the day broke, he heard some one walking 
and doors opening towards Anzoleto’s chamber. “ The infamous 
wretch ! ” said he ; he leaves her without shame or precaution. He 
seems even desirous of rendering his victory publicly notorious. Ah I 
for the injury he does me I would care nothing, were it not that 
another soul — nobler and dearer than my own, is contaminated by 
his love.” 

At the hour when the Count Christian was wont to arise, Albert 
went to his apartment, not to inform him of what had passed, but to 
prevail on him to seek a farther explanation from Consuelo. He was 
sure that she would not stoop to falsehood. He thought that she 
would even desire the explanation, and was planning how to console 
her trouble — to reconcile her even to her shame, and to feign a resig- 
nation, which should soften the bitterness of their adieux. Albert 
asked himself not, what would become of him thereafter? He felt 
that either his reason or his life would give way under such a shock, 
and he feared not the experience of suffering greater than this en- 
durance. 

He met his father just as he was entering the oratory. The letter 
laid upon the desk attracted both their eyes at the same moment. 
They seized and read it together. The old man was thunderstruck, 
thinking that Albert would not be able to endure it. But Albert, who 
had prepared himself for a yet greater calamity, was calm, resigned, 
and firm in his confidence. 

“ She is pure,” said he; “ she desires to love me. She feels that my 
love is true, and my faith impregnable. God will save her from dan- 
ger. Let us accept this promise, my father, and let us be tranquil ; 
fear nothing for me. I shall be stronger than my grief, and I will 
master my anxieties should they attack me.” 

“ My son,” said the old man tenderly. “ Here we stand before the 
image of the God of thy fathers. Thou hast adopted a different 
creed, and I have never blamed them angrily, though thou knowest 
that they have caused my heart to bleed. I am about to prostrate 
myself before the effigy of that God, before whom I promised thee 
during the past night, to do all that depends on me to bring about the 


302 


CONSUELO, 


success of thy love, and its ratification on honorable terms. I have 
kept my promise, and I renew it. I am about to pray again to the 
All Powerful, that He will grant thy prayers, and that mine shall not 
stand at variance with thine. Wilt thou not then join with me in this 
solemn hour, which perhaps shall decide in heaven the fate of thy love 
here on earth? O, then, my noble son, whom the Lord has given 
grace to retain all thy virtues, in spite of the trials to which he has 
subjected thy former faith — thou, whom I have seen in thy early in- 
fancy kneeling by my side on thy mother’s tomb, and praying, like a 
young-eyed angel, to that Sovereign Master, whom thou hadst not 
then learned to doubt — wilt thou refuse to lift thy voice to Him this 
day. that mine may not be useless? ” 

“ My father,” replied Albert, clasping him in his arms ; “ if our faith 
differ as to forms and dogmas, our souls will forever be agreed on the 
existence of a divine and eternal principle. You serve a God of wis- 
dom and of goodness, an ideal of perfection, of knowledge, and of 
justice, whom I never have ceased to adore. O, thou crucified Divin- 
ity,” he cried, kneeling beside his father before the image of the Re- 
deemer; “ Thou whom men adore as the Word, and wliom I revere 
as the noblest and most perfect specimen of universal love among us, 
listen to my prayer. Thou whose thoughts dwell eternally in God and 
in us! Bless our just instincts and upright endeavors! Pity the 
perversity which is triumphant, and sustain the innocence which 
resists. Let that come of my happiness which God will ! But oh, 
incarnate Deity, let thy influence direct and encourage those hearts 
which have no other strength and no other consolation than thy 
sojourn, and thy example here on earth.” 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

Anzoleto pursued his route to Prague wholly to no purpose; for 
no sooner had she given the guide the false instructions, which she 
considered necessary to the success of her enterprise, than Consuelo 
struck into a cross-road, which she knew, from having traversed it 
twice in a carriage with the baroness Amelia, when going to the 
neighboring chateau of Tauss. That chateau was the farthest point 
to which the few excursions that she had made from Riesenberg, had 
extended. Therefore, the aspect of that district, and the direction of 
the roads had occurred to her, so soon as she had conceived the idea 
of flight. She remembered that, wdiile walking on the terrace of the 
castle, the lady to whom it belonged had said to her, while she was 
pointing out the vast extent of beautiful country, which was to be 
seen stretching out to the horizon — “ that fine road, with an avenue of 
trees, which you see below there, and which fades out of sight on the 
horizon, joins the great Southern Road, and it is by it that we go to 
Vienna.” Consuelo, with that direction and clear recollection on her 
mind, was certain of not losing her way, and of regaining the road by 
which she had herself entered Bohemia, at no inordinate distance. 
She reached the park of Biela— skirted the walls of the park— discov- 
ered, without much difficulty, notwithstanding the darkness of the 
night, the road with its avenue of trees, and before day broke had sue- 


C O N S U E L <). 


803 


ceeded in setting between lierself and the place which she wished to 
leave behind, a space of at least three leagues as the crow flies. 
Young, healthy, active, and accustomed from her childhood to long 
walks, supported, moreover, by an energetic will, she saw the day 
dawn without having experienced the least fatigue. The heaven was 
serene, — the roads dry, and covered with smooth soft sand. The gal- 
lop of the horse, to which she was not accustomed, had shaken her a 
good deal ; but it is well known that foot exercise in such cases is bet- 
ter than rest, and that with energetic temperaments, one kind of 
weariness is the cure for the other. Nevertheless, as the stars began 
to pale in the skies and the twilight grew clearer and clearer, she 
began to feel alarmed at her loneliness. She had been perfectly com- 
posed and at her ease during the darkness — for constantly on thorns 
irom the appi-ehension of being pursued, she knew that slie was al- 
ways safe, through her power of concealing herself before she should 
b(j discovered. But now that it was day, having to traverse wide 
tracts of open country, she did not dare to follow the beaten track, the 
lather that she saw groups in all directions afar otf, scattered like 
small black points along the whitish line which the road described, 
by its contrast with the dark country over which it ran. At so short 
a distance from Riesenberg she might be recognized by the first passer- 
by, and she determined to turn into a jiath, which looked as if it 
would shorten her road, by cutting off at I'ight angles a circuit, which 
the causeway liere macle around a hill. — She walked thus for nearly 
an hour without meeting any person, and entered a woody piece of 
ground, in which she felt now that she should be able to conceal her- 
self from prying eyes. “If I could gain a start of eight or ten leagues 
thus without being discoveied, I should then walk at my ease along 
the high road, and on the first opportunity, I could hire a carriage and 
horses.” 

This thought made her put her liand into her purse, to calculate 
how much money remained to her, after her liberal payment of the 
guide, who had brought her from Riesenberg, for the prosecution of 
iier long and difticnlt journey. She had not taken time to reflect coolly, 
and it is doubtful whether, if she had made all the reflections whicli pru- 
dence should have suggested, she would ever have resolved on tliis ad- 
venturous flight. But what was her consternation and surprise at per- 
ceiving that her slender pui’se was much lighter than she had imagined. 
In her haste, she had either carried away but half the small sum which 
she possessed, or in the confusion and darkness, she had p.iid the guide 
gold instead of silver. So that, alter counting and recounting her 
coins without being able to deceive herself on the trivial sum which 
they contained, she came to the conviction that she could reach Vi- 
enna only by travelling the whole way on foot. 

This discovery at first discouraged her not a little, not so much on 
account of the fatigue, which she did not fear, but of the dangers 
which, to a young woman, are inseparable from a long journey on foot. 
This fear, which she had hitherto overcome by saying to herself that 
she would soon shelter herself from all the dangers of the high road by 
taking a carriage, began to address her louder than she had expected 
during the first excitement of her overwrought ideas; and, as if over- 
come for the first time in her life by the consciousness of her poverty 
and weakness, she began to walk as quickly as she could, seeking the 
shade of the deepest coppices, as if in these she could find an asylum 
from her uneasiness. To increase her distress, she soon found that 


304 


C () N S U E L O. 


she was following no regularly beaten track, and that she was wan- 
dering at hazard through a wood which was becoming at every step 
thicker and thicker. If the dead solitude of the place, in some re- 
spects, relieved her fears, the uncertainty of her direction alarmed her 
on another point, — for she might be unconsciously returning on her 
steps and drawing nearer to the Giants’ Castle. Anzoleto might be 
there still ; a suspicion, an accident, a thought of vengeance against 
Albert, might any of them have retained him? And again, had she 
not reason to fear Albert himself, in the first moments of his surprise 
and despair? Consuelo was well satisfied that he would submit him- 
self to her decision, but if she were to be seen in the vicinity of the 
castle, and if the young count were to hear of her being within 
reach, would he not hasten to her with the hope of bringing her 
back by his tears and supplications? Would it be just, tlien, to ex- 
pose this noble youth, his family, nay, even her own pride, to the rid- 
icule of an enterprise undertaken only to fail as quickly? Moreover, 
it was not unlikely that Anzoleto would return in a few days, and 
bring back that inextricable confusion of emoarrassments and dan- 
gers, which she had severed by a bold and generous stroke of deci- 
sion. It was better, therefore, to brave all, and expose herself to all, 
than to return to Riesenberg. 

Determined then to make her way to Vienna at all hazards, she 
stopped at a shadowy and solitary spot, where a living spring gushed 
out from among umbrageous trees and moss-grown rocks. Tlie soil 
around was pouched, and cut up by the footmarks of many animals. 
Was it that the flocks of the neighborhood, or the beasts of the forest 
came, from time to time, to quench their thirst at that secluded 
spring? Consuelo drew nigh to it, and, kneeling on the damp stone, 
drank Joyfully of that clear and ice-cold water. Then, remaining on 
her bended knees, she meditated for a little while on her situation. 
“ I am very foolish,” she thought, “ and very vain, if I cannot accom- 
plish what I have set out to do. What, then, has the daughter of my 
mother become so effeminate by the luxuries of life, that she dare not 
encounter the heat of the sun, hunger, fatigue, or danger? Are 
these, then, all my dreams arid longings after poverty and freedom, 
when in the midst of wealth, which seemed only to o])press me, and 
from which I longed to extricate myself? And am I now terror- 
stricken at the first step I have taken? Is not this the trade to 
which I was born — ‘ to travel, to dare, and to suffer?’ and what is 
then changed about me since the days when I used to wander with 
my mother, often ahungered, quenching our thirst in the little way- 
side fountains, and gaining strength from the draught? Wh. at dan- 
gers did I fear with my mother? Was she not wont to say to mo when 
we met ominous-looking characters, ‘ Fear nothing. Those who 
possess nothing, nothing threatens, and the miserable war not upon 
the miserable? ’ Courage, then, courage ! I will on; for this day, I 
have nothing to fear but hunger. I will not, therefore, this day enter 
a cottage to beg bread, until I shall be far. far away, and night shall 
have covered the earth. A day will be passed speedily. When it be- 
comes hot, and my limbs wax faint, I will recall to niind that axiom 
of philosophy which I have heard so often in my childhood — ‘he who 
sleeps, dines.’ I will hide myself in some hollow of the rocks, and 
then shall see my poor mother, who watchest over me now, and voy- 
agest by my side, invisible, that I still know how to take my siesta on 
the bare earth without a pillow. Courage. I will on ! ” 


CONS DEL O. 




805 


And as she spoke, Coiisnelo tried to rise; but, after three or four 
attempts to leave that wild and lovely spring, the sweet murmur of 
which seemed to invite repose, the sleep which she had purposed to 
defer, until afternoon crept upon her heavy (Eyelids, and hunger, 
which she was not so much accustomed to endure as she imagined, 
increased her sense of exhaustion. She strove to disguise this from 
herself in vain. She had eaten scarce anything (,'n the previous even- 
ing; anxiety and agitation had conquered her appetite. A veil 
now seemed to be drawn over her eyes— a chill and heavy perspira- 
tion broke out on her languid limbs, and, without being conscious of 
it, she yielded gradually to weariness; and, while in the very act of 
forming a resolution to arise at once and proceed on her journey, her 
frame surrendered itself to the neccessity of sleep — her head fell back 
on her little travelling bag, and she fell sound asleep on the grass. 

The sun, red and hot, as he is seen sometimes in the summer skies 
of Bohemia, climbed the heavens gaily; the fountain bubbled over Its 
pebbles, as if it would have lulled tlie slumber ol‘ the w'ayfarer with 
its monotonous song, and the birds fluttered from twig to twig singing 
their lively strains above her unconscious head. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

It was nearly three o’clock before the forgetful girl awoke, nor then 
until another sound than that of the fountain, and the merry birds 
disturbed her from her lethargy. She half opened her eyes, without 
having as yet the power to arise, and saw, scarce two paces from her, 
a man bending over the spring and drinking as she had done but a 
short time before, without more ceremoiiy than merely applying his 
lips to the stream. Consuelo’s first feeling was of alarm, but the 
second glance which she cast upon the intruder on her privacy, re- 
moved her apprehensions. For, whether he had observed the fea- 
tures of the fair traveller at his leisure before she awoke, or whether 
he took no care, about her, it is certain that he seemed to take but 
little notice of her. Beside, he was in fact rather a boy than a man. 
He seemed to be about fifteen, or at most sixteen years of age — was 
small for his years, tawny and sun-burned, and his face, which was 
neither handsome nor the reverse, showed nothing at that moment 
but quiet indifference. 

By an instinctive movement, Consuelo drew her veil over her fea- 
tures, and made no alteration in her position, thinking th.at, if the 
traveller should pay no more attention to her than he at this moment 
seemed disposed to do, it would be the better way to feign sleep, and 
to avoid embarrassing questions. Through her veil, however, she 
could distinctly see all his movements, expecting momentarily to see 
him take up his knapsack, and proceed on his way. 

Soon, however, she saw that he intended to rest a while also, and 
even to break his fast; for he opened his wallet, took out of it a large 
piece of brown biead, which he proceeded to cut, and eat with a 
hearty appetite. While doing this, he cast, from time to time, a shy 
and deferential glance on the fair sleeper, and took special care not to 
awaken her suddenly, as appeared by the gentleness with which he 
19 


306 


C O N S U E L O. 


Mosed the spring of his clasp-knife. This mark of deference restored 
complete confidence to Consuelo, und the sight of the bread, which 
her companion was eating with such a relisli, turned her thoughts to 
her own hunger. After having satisfied herself, by an examination oi 
the boy’s disordered dress, and dusty shoes, that he was a poor coun- 
try traveller, she took it into her head that he was an unexpected aid 
sent to her by Providence, by whom she was bound to profit. The 
piece of bread was beyond what he coidd need; and, without limit- 
ing his own appetite, he could easily spare her a portion. She arose, 
therefore, and affecting to draw her hand across her eyes, as if she 
had just awakened, and look at the boy with a steady and assured 
eye, as if to influence him should he show any signs of altering the 
respectful demeanor he had thus far shown her. But of this precau- 
tion there was no need. For so soon as he saw her standing up, tlie 
boy was at first a little embarriassed, lowered his eyes, and after rais- 
ing them and letting them fall several times in succession, at length, 
encouraged by the kind and sympathizing expression of Consuelo’s 
face, in spite of all her desire to keep it grave, lie ventured to address 
her in a voice so gentle and harmonious, that the young cantatrice 
was involuntarily predisposed in his favor. “ Well, mademoiselle,” he 
said, with a smile, “so you are awake at last? You w’ere sleeping 
there so comfortably, that, if it had not been for the fear of seeming 
impertinent, I should have done as much myself;” 

“ You are as obliging as you are polite,” said Consuelo, assuming a 
sort of maternal tone towards him. “ You shall do me a little seryfce, 
if you will.” 

“ Whatever you please,” said the young wayfarer, to w'hom Consu- 
elo’s voice appeared no less agreeable than his had been to her. 

“ You shall sell me a little portion of your breakfast,” said Consu- 
elo, “ if you can spare it.” 

“Sell it to you! ” cried the boy, astonished, and blushing deeply. 

Oh ! if I Inid a breakfast, I would not sell it to you ! I am not an inn- 
keeper, but 1 would offer it, and give it to you.” 

“ You wdll give to me, then, on condition that I give you enough to 
procure a better breakfast? ” 

“ No indeed ! no indeed I ” replied he. “You are joking, I suppose ; 
or are you too proud to accept a poor bit of bread from me ; you see 
that I have nothing else to offer.” 

“ Well, I accept it,” said Consuelo, extending her hand for it; “ the 
goodness of your heart should make me blush, were I to show too much 
pride.” 

“ Take it, take it, beautiful lady,” cried the young man delighted. 
“ Take the bread and the knife, and cut for yourself, but pray don’t 
spare it. I am not much of an eater, and that should have lasted me 
all my day’s journey.” 

“ But have you enough wherewithal to purchase more for your jour- 
ney?” 

“ Cannot one get bread everywhere. ? Come, eat, I pray you, if you 
would oblige me.” 

Consuelo did not wait to be requested any farther, and feeling that 
it would be a poor requital to her brotherly entertainer to refuse to 
eat in his company, she sat dowm not far from him, and began to eat 
the bread, in comparison of wdiich, the richest and most delicate meats 
she had ever tasted, appeared coarse and vapid. 

“ What an excellent appetite you have,” said the boy. “ It does 


S 


CONSUELO. 


307 


one good to see you eat. Well, I am very happy to have met you. In 
fact, it makes me perfectly happy to have clone so. Come take my ad- 
vice, let us eat it all. We shall find some house on our road to-day, 
although this country seems to be a desert.’’ 

“You are not acquainted with it then ? ” said Consuelo, indiffer- 
ently. 

“ it is the first time I have travelled it this way, though I know the 
road from Vienna to Pilsoi, over which I have Jjust travelled, and 
which I shall follow on my way down yonder again.” 

“ Down yonder — do you mean to Vienna!” 

“ Yes, to Vienna; are you going thither also? ” 

Consuelo, who was hesitating whether she should take this boy as 
a travelling companion, or avoid him, pretended to be thinking of some- 
thing else, so as to avoid answering. 

“ Bah I what am I thinking about? ” said the youth, correcting him- 
self. “ A beautiful young lady like yourself would not be going alone 
to Vienna. And yet you are travelling somewhere, for you have a 
package, and are on foot as I am.” 

Consuelo, who was- determined to avoid his questions, until such 
time as she should discover how far he was to be trusted, answered 
his question by another question, ‘‘ Do you live at Pilsen ? ” 

“ No,” replied the boy, who had neither cause nor inclination to be 
distrustful, “ I am from Rohrau in Hungary. My father is a wheel- 
wright by trade.” 

“ And how came you to be travelling so far from home ? You do 
not follow your father’s business, then ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, and no. My father is a wheelwright, and I am not; but he 
is a musician, and so do I hope to be.” 

“ A musician, — bravo! — that is an honorable profession.” 

“ Perhaps you are one also — are you ? ” 

“ But you were not going to study music at Pilsen ; it is said to be 
a gloomy garrison town.” 

“ Oh ! no. I was entrusted with a commission to do there, and am 
on my way back to Vienna, where I hope to earn my living, while I 
continue my musical studies.” 

“ What style have you adopted — vocal, or instrumental?” 

“ A little of both. 1 have a pretty good voice, and I have a poor 
little violin yonder with which 1 can make myself understood. But 
my ambition has a wider range, and I wish to go farther than this.” 

“ Perhaps to compose ? ” • 

“ You have said it. I have nothing in my head but this confounded 
composition. I will show you that I have a good travelling compan- 
ion in my wallet. It is a great book, which I have cut to pieces in 
order to carry it the more easily about the country; and when I am 
tired and sit down to rest, I amuse myself by studying it. That, in 
itself, rests me.” 

“ A very good idea ; and I would lay a wager it is the Gradus ad 
Parnassum of Fuchs.” 

“ Exactly. Ah ! I see you know all about it; and I am sure, now, 
that you are a musician as well as I. Just now as I looked at you, 
while you were asleep, I said to myself— that is not a German face ; it 
is a Southern face — perhaps Italian — and what ])leases me more, it is 
an artist’s face; therefore, it gave me much pleasure when you asked 
me for some of my bread ; and now I see that you have a foreign ac- 
cent, though you speak German as well as may be.” 


808 


CONS U E 1, (). 


“You may be deceived. You have not a German face either — you 
have the complexion of an Italian, and yet ” 

“Oh! mademoiselle, you are too good. I have the complexion of 
an African; and my companions in the choir at St.Stephen’s used to 
call me the Moor. But to return to what I was saying, — when I first 
found you asleep in the middle of the wood, I was a good deal sur- 
prised, and then I made up a hundred fancies about you. It is, per- 
haps, thought I, my good star which has brought me hither to find a 
kind heart that will assist me. At last — may I tell you all?” 

“ Say on without fear.” 

“Seeing you too well dressed, and too fair skinned to be a poor 
stroller, yet seeing, at the same time, that you had a parcel, I imag- 
ined that you must be some one attached to another person — a for- 
eigner herself, and an artist — oh ! a very great artist is she whom I 
wish to see, and whose protection would be my salvation and my hap- 
piness. Come, mademoiselle, confess truly ! You live at some neigh- 
boring chateau, and are going or returning with some little commis- 
sion in the neighborhood, and you know, do you not — oh ! yes, you 
must know the Giants’ Castle?” 

“ What, Riesenberg? Are you going to Riesenberg? ” 

“ I am trying, at least, to go thither; for I have lost my way in the 
midst of this accursed wood, in spite of all the directions they gave 
me at Klatau, and I do not know how to get out of it. Fortunately, 
you know Riesenberg, and you will tell me if I have passed it.” 

“ But what are you going to do at Riesenberg ? ” 

“ I am going to see the Porporina.” 

“ Indeed! ” and fearing to discover herself to a stranger who might 
well speak of her at the Giants’ Castle, Consuelo asked indifferently, 
— “ And who is this Porporina, if you please?” 

“What! do you not know? Alas! I see that you are entirely a 
stranger in this country; but since you are a musician, and know the 
name of Fuchs, you must also know that of Porpora? ” 

“ And do you know Porpora?” 

“ Not yet; and it is for that end that I wish to obtain the patron- 
age of his beloved and famous pupil, the Signora Porporina.” 

“ Tell me what put that idea into your head, and perhaps I may try 
with you to approach this castle, and find this Porporina.” 

“ I will tell you my whole history. I am, as I have told you, the 
son of a worthy wheelwright, and native of a little hamlet on the bor- 
ders of Austria and Hungary. My father is sacristan and organist in 
the village, and my mother, who was cook to a nobleman in the 
neighborhood, has a fine voice, and in the evening when their work 
was done my father used to accompany her on the harp. Thus I 
naturally acquired a taste for music; and I remember when I was a 
mere child, my greatest pleasure was to play my part at these family 
concerts, by scraping upon a piece of wood with a lath, which I im- 
agined to be a violin and bow, and from which I fancied that I was 
drawing splendid sounds. Oh! yes, it seems to me yet, that my be- 
loved sticks were not voiceless, and that a divine voice, which the 
others heard not, spread itself forth around me, and intoxicated me 
with celestial harmonies. 

“Our cousin Franck, who is schoolmaster at Hamburg, came to 
visit on a day when I was playing on my imaginary violin, and was 
very much amused at the ecstacy in which I was plunged. He as- 
serted that it was a. sure presage of an extraordinary musical talent, 


C O N S U E L O. 


309 

and he carried me to Hamburg, where, for three years, he gave me a 
very rough musical education I assure you. How many beautiful 
organ stops, with notes and tiourishes, has he not executed on my 
ears and fingers with his directing rod, in order to make me keep 
time. Nevertheless I was not to be disgusted. I learned to read and 
to write. I had a real violin, on which I learned the elements of 
music, as well as of singing, and those of the Latin language. I also 
made as rapid progress as was possible, with a master who had a 
little more courage than my cousin Fi-anck. 

“ I was about eight years old when chance, or rather Providence, 
in whom, as a good Christian, I have always had full faith, brought 
Master Peuter, the chapel master of the cathedral at Vienna, to my 
cousin’s house. I was introduced to him as a little prodigy, and when 
I had very easily read off a bit of music before him, he admitted me 
to his friendship, carried me with him to Vienna, and had me entered 
as a chorister in the Cathedral of St. Stephen’s. 

“ We had only two hours a day of work then, and the rest of our 
time given up to ourselves, we were allowed to vagabondise at our 
own pleasure; but happily ray passion overpowered both the tastes for 
dissipation, and the indolence of a child. When I was playing in the 
public squares with my fellows, no sooner did I hear the notes of the 
organ, than 1 left all to run back to the church and revel in the songs 
and harmonies. I forgot myself whole evenings in the streets, before 
the windows of houses whence issued the interrupted sounds of a 
concert, or even the melodious accents of a single voice. I was greedy 
of knowing and understanding whatever came to my ear. Above all, 
I wanted to compose. Before I was thirteen, without the knowledge 
of a single rule, I ventured to write a niass, the partition of which I 
showed to Master Keuter. He laughed at me, and advised me to 
learn before I should begin to create. It was very easy for him to say, 
— but I had no means of paying a master, and my parents were too 
poor to pay at the same time for my support and my musical educa- 
tion ! At last, I received from them one day six florins, with which 
I purchased tlie book you see, and tliat of Mattheson ; I began to 
study them diligently, and with intense gratification. My voice im- 
proved, and at length came to be considered the best in the choir. 
In the midst of the doubts and uncertainties of ignorance which 1 
labored hard to dispel, I felt that my brain was developing itself, and 
that ideas were budding within me; but I was approaching the age 
when, in comformity with the rules of the chapel, I must leave the 
choir, and without resources, patronage, arid masters, I began to ask 
myself whether these eight years of teaching in the cathedral were 
not going to prove iny last studies, and whether I should not be com- 
pelled to return home to my pai’ents and learn the trade of a wheel- 
wright. To increase my vexation, I saw that Master Keuter, instead 
of treating me with kindness, or interesting himself in me, was 
harsh and rough, and seenied anxious only to get rid of me. I knew 
not the cause of his antipathy, which I am sure I never merited. 
Some of my companions were so flighty as to say that he was jealous 
of me, because he found in my essays at composition a sort of i*eve- 
lation of the musical instincts, and that he was ever wont to hate 
and discourage young persoirs in whom he discovered an inspiration 
more vivid than his own. I arn far from accepting this vain-glorious 
interpretation of my disgrace, but I still think I made a mistake in 
showing him my attenrpts, arrd that he took me for arr impertinent 
blockhead, and an ambitious preteirder.” 


CONSUELO 


310 

“ Perhaps so,” said Consiielo, interrupting his narrative. “ At all 
events, old teachers do not like pupils who seem to learn quicker than 
they themselves teach. But tell me your name, ray lad.” 

“ My name is Joseph.” 

“ Joseph who ? ” 

“ Joseph Haydn.” 

“ I will bear your name in mind, that I may see what opinion I 
must hold of your master’s aversion, and of the interest with which 
your story inspires me, in case one day you should turn out to be some- 
body. Go on with your narrative, I pray you.” 

Young Haydn continued as follows; while Consuelo, struck by the 
similarity of their fortunes, both poor — both destined, as it would seem 
to be, artists, gazed attentively at the countenance and expression of 
the chorister. His trivial features and bilious complexion, took, not- 
withstanding. at times, a singular degree of animation, as he became 
excited by his narrative. His blue eyes sparkled with a quickness 
which was at once roguish and good-natured, and everything in his 
whole manner, both of acting and speaking, announced that he was 
an extraordinary character. 


CHAPTER LXY. 

“ Whatever might be the causes of Master Reuter’s dislike to me, 
he at all events showed it in a. very harsh manner, and for a very tri- 
fling fault. I had a pair of new scissors, and, like any schoolboy, I 
turned upon everything that came ready to my hand. One of my 
comrades had his back turned to me, and his long pigtail was contin- 
ually sweeping away, as fast as I could write them, the notes which 
my chalk described on my slate. A quick and fatal idea came into my 
head; and no sooner came than the deed was done. Crack! the 
scissors were open — the tail lay on the ground. My master’s hawk’s 
eye followed my every motion; and, before my poor companion was 
aware of his loss, I was reprimanded, noted with a mark of disgrace, 
and discharged by this summary process. 

“ I left the cathedral school at seven in the evening, in the month 
of November of last year, and found myself in the square, with no 
money, and no other garment than that which I had on my back. I 
had a moment of despair. I imagined to myself, on being thus expel- 
led with anger and disgrace, that I had committed some enormous 
fault. I began to cry with all my might over the lock of hair and the 
end of ribbon which had fallen under my fotal scissors. My comrade, 
whose head I had thus dishonored, passed me, crying also. Never 
were more tears shed, or remorse wasted, over a Prussian pigtail. 

“ That night I passed on the pavement, and as I was sighing the 
next morning over the necessity and impossibility of getting some 
breakfast, I was accosted by Keller, the hair-dresser of the school of 
St. Stephen’s. As soon as the witty Keller saw my pitiful face, re- 
turning as he was from dressing Master Reuter, who had told him the 
whole story, he burst into a violent fit of laughter, and loaded me 
with sarcasms. 

“ ‘ Hallo ! ’ said he as soon as he saw me, yet afar off, — ‘ so here ia 


# 


C O N S U E L (). 


311 

the scourge of wigmakers, the enemy in general, and in particular of 
all here, who, like me, make it their business to tend and provide for 
the beauty of the fair. What, ho! my little executioner of pigtails, 
exterminator of top-knots, come here ’till I cut off all your fine "black 
hair, to replace all the queues which are destined to fall before your 
blows.’ I was desperate, furious; I hid my face in my hands, and 
believing myself to be the object of public vengeance, I was going to 
take to my heels, when the good Keller caught me by the arm, ad- 
dressed me kindly, offering to take me home with him, give me the 
use of a garret in the sixth story, his wife and children occupying the 
fifth, and to let me live at his table until I should find some employ- 
ment. 

“ I went home with the generous Keller, my preserver, my second 
father; and beside my board and lodging, poor mechanic as he was 
himself, he found means to advance me a little money in order to con- 
tinue my studies. I hired an old worm-eaten pianoforte, and snugly 
stowed in my garret with my Fuchs and my Mattheson, I gave myself 
up without restraint to my mania for composition. From that time 
I have regarded myself as favored especially by Providence. The first 
six sonatas of Emanuel Bach have been ray delight during this winter, 
and I believe that I understand them thoroughly. At the same time, 
as if to recompense me for my zeal and persevei-ance, heaven has per- 
mitted me to find a little occupation by which to live, and acquit my- 
self of my obligations toward my kind host. I play the organ every 
Sunday, in the chapel of Count Haugwitz, after playing my part of 
first violin in the church of the Fathers of Mercy. Moreover, I have 
obtained two patrons: the one is an abbe, who writes much beautiful 
Italian poetry, and who is greatly esteemed by her majesty the Queen 
Empress. His name is Mods. Metastasio, and as he lives in the same 
house with Keller and myself, I give lessons to a ycnmg person who is 
said to be his niece. My other patron is monseigneur, the ambassa- 
dor, from Venice.‘’ 

“ Ah ! Signor Korner,” cried Consuelo, quickly. 

“Ah! do you know him?” replied Haydn. “It is Monsieur the 
Abbe Metastatio, who introduced me to ids house. My little talent 
gave satisfaction there, and his excellency has promised to procure 
me lessons from Master Porpora, who is now at the baths of Manen- 
dorf, with Madame Wilhelmina, the wife or mistress of his excellency. 
That promise raised me to the seventh heaven. To learn composition, 
the pure and correct principles of Italian art, to be the pupil of so 
great a professor, of the first singing master of the universe! I con- 
sidered my fortune as already made. I blessed my stars, and almost 
fancied myself already a great master. But, alas! in spite of his ex- 
cellency’s kind intentions, his protnise has not proved as easy of reali- 
zation as I flattered myself; and unless I can find a more powerful re- 
commendation to Porpora, I fear that I shall never be enabled even 
to approach his person. He is said to be very eccentric; and the 
more attentive, generous, and kind he shows himself to some of his 
pupils, the sterner and more capricious he is to others. It seems that 
M.aster Eeuter is regarded as nobody by Porpora, and I tremble at the 
mere idea of seeing him. Nevertheless, though he refused the request 
of the ambassador concerning me point blank, and has declared that 
he will take no more pupils — as I know that Moiiseigneur Korner will 
insist — I still have hopes, and I am resolved to endure the most cruel 
mortifications patiently, provided that he will teach me something 
while he scolds me.” 


812 


CONST! K L O. 


“You have formed a wise resolution in that,” said Consii<*Io. 
“The manners of tlie great maestro have not been exaggeiated to 
you. But still there is room for you to hope ; for if you possess pa- 
tience, absolute submission, and a true inclination for music, as I 
think you do, if you do not lose your bead in bis first outbreaks of 
temper, and if you succeed in showing him intelligence and rapidity 
of judgment, at the end of three or four lessons, 1 promise you that 
you will find him one of the gentlest and most conscientious of mas- 
ters. Perhaps even, if your heart answers to your intellect, Porpora 
will become a solid friend, a just and generous father to you.” 

“ Oh ! you overwhelm me wdth joy. I see clearly that you must 
know him: you ought also to know his famous pupil, the new 
Countess of Rudolstadt — La Porporina.” 

“ But what have you ever hear about Porporina, or what do you 
expect from her? ” 

“ 1 expect a letter from her to Porpora, and her patronage will be 
most powerful with him when she comes to Vienna, which she will 
certainly do after her marriage with the rich Count Rudolstadt.” 

“ When did you hear of this marriage? ” 

“By the greatest chance in the world. I must tell you that about a 
month since, Keller lost a friend, wdio left him some little property at 
Pilsen, and having neither the time nor the means to make the jour- 
ney, fearing lest the legacy should not make up for the loss of his busi- 
ness, I offered to go in his place, and have happily succeeded in real- 
izing a small property for him. Returning from Pilsen, 1 passed last 
night at a place called Klatau. It was a market day, and the town 
was full of people. At the same table with me there dined a man 
w'hom they addressed as Dr. Wetzelius, the greatest glutton, and 
greatest gossip I ever met. ‘Do you know the news?’ said he, to 
one of his neighbors at table. ‘Count Albert of Rudolstadt, who is 
mad, arch-mad, and all but frantic, is going to marry his cousin’s 
music-mistress, an adventuress, a beggar-girl, who is said to have been 
a low actress in Italy, and who ran aw^ay with tho old musician Porpo- 
ra who, becoming disgusted with her, packed her off to be confined at 
Riesenberg. The event was kept rigidly secret; and as at first they 
could not undei’stand the nature of the malady or convulsions of 
mademoiselle, who passed for being very virtuous, I w'as called in, to 
attend a case of putrid and malignant fever. But scarcely had I felt 
the pulse of the patient before Count Albert, who doubtless knew 
right well the full extent of her virtue, expelled me from the room 
with violence, and would not suffer me to return. All was arranged 
quietly. I believe the old canoness performed the office of accouch- 
eur; the poor old lady had never, I fancy, witnessed such a scene 
before. The child has disappeared, but that which is the most wonder- 
full of all is that the young count who, as you all know, cannot keep the 
run of time, but takes months for years, has taken it into his head 
that he is the father of this child, and spoke with such enei-gy and vio- 
lence to the family, that rather thati see him relapse into madness, 
they have consented to his beautiful marriage.’ 

“ Oh ! horror ! infamy ! ” cried Consuelo. " “ It is one tissue of abom- 
inable calumnies, and revolting absurdities.” 

“Do not suppose that I believed it for one moment,” said Joseph 
Haydn. “ The face of that old doctor was so malicious and foolish, 
that, even before he had been contradicted, I was sure he w^as uttering 
only lies and follies. But scarcely bad he got through his story, before 


C O S U E L O. 


313 


five or six young people who were around him took the young lady’s 
part. It was who should praise most highly the beauty, grace, mod- 
esty. intellect, and incomparable talents of La Porporina. Every one 
approved of tlie match, and praised the old count for consenting to it, 
while Dr. Wetzeliiis was treated as a babbler and a fool. It is thus 
that I learned the truth, and as it is said that Porpora has the great- 
est regai d for a pupil to whom he has given his own name, I took it 
into my head to go to Riesenberg to see the future, or the new count- 
ess — for some say she is already secretly married, to avoid giving of- 
fence at court — tell her my history, and procure her interest with her 
illustrious master.” 

Consuelo remained pensive for a moment; for his last words con- 
cerning the court had struck her'; but quickly returning to his affairs, 

“ My boy,” said she, “do not go to Riesenberg; Porporina is not 
there. She is not married to the Count of Rudolstadt, and it is even 
doubtful whether the marriage ever will take place. It is true, that it 
has been spoken of, but Porporina, althougli she has the deepest re- 
gard and esteem for County Albert, did not think that she ought to de- 
cide without much consideration, on a matter so serious. She 
weighed on one side the injury she would do to so illustrious a family, 
in perhaps depriving it of the favor of the empress, and the consider- 
ation of all the nobles of the country; and on the other hand, the 
evil she would do herself in renouncing the exercise of the noble art 
which she had studied so passionately and embraced so courageously. 

Wishing therefore to consult Porpora, and to give the young count 
time to see whether his passion would stand the test of absence, she 
suddenly set out for Vienna, alone, on foot, without a guide and 
almost penniless, but with the hope of restoring repose and reason to 
him who loves lier, and carrying with her, of all the riches which 
were offered to her, only the witness of her conscience, and the pride 
of her condition as an artist.” 

“ Oh ! slie is a true artist, indeed. She must have a strong head, 
and a noble soul, to have so acted,” cried Joseph, fixing his bright eyes 
on Consuelo; “ and, if I do not err, it is she to whom I speak; she be- * 

fore whom I prostrate myself.” 

“ It is she who offers you her hand, and with it her friendship, her 
counsel, and her aid with Porpora. Eor we are about to travel to- 
gether, as I perceive, and if God protect us together, as he has hith- 
erto protected us singly, as he protects all who put their tfust in Him, 
we shall soon be at Vienna, and we will take our lessons of the same 
master.” 

“ Heaven be praised,” cried Haydn, clasping his hands, and w'eejv 
ing for joy, as he raised his arms enthusiastically toward heaven. “I 
was well convinced, when I looked on you as you slept, that there was 
something supernatural about you, and that my life and my destiny 
were in your hands.” 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

When the young people had made a more complete acquaintance, 
by going over and over again the various details of their situation in 


314 


CONSUELO. 


friendly converse, they began to think of the precaiitioTiS to he taken, 
and the arrangements made, in order to return to Vienna. The first 
thing they did was to pull out their purses, and count their money. 
Consuelo was still the richer of the two ; but their funds combined, 
were at the most sufficient to furnish them the means of travelling 
leisurely on foot, without suffering hunger, or sleeping in the open air. 
There was nothing else to be thought of; and Consuelo had already 
made up her mind to it; but, notwithstanding the philosophic gravity 
she maintained on that head, Joseph was anxious and pensive. 

“ What is the matter with you ? ” said she ; “ are you afraid of the 
embarrassment of my company? 1 would lay a wager that I w^alk 
better than you.” 

“I doubt not,” he replied, “ that you do everything better than I. 
But I am fearful and alarmed, when I consider that you are young 
and handsome, that all eyes will be turned upon you covetously, and 
that I, frail and delicate, though well resolved to be killed in your de- 
fence, should be little able to protect you.” 

“Of what are you thinking, my poor boy? If I were handsome 
enough to rivet the eyes of all spectators, do you not know that a wo- 
man who respects herself can always command respect by her counte- 
nance? ” 

“ Whether you were plain or handsome, young or in the decline of 
life, impudent or modest, you would not be in safety on these roads, 
covered with soldiers and vagabonds of all kind.s. Since peace has 
been made, the country is overflowed with soldiery returning to their 
garrisons, and, more than all, with these volunteer adventurers, who 
regard themselves as privileged individuals, and knowing no longer 
whither to look for fortune, apply themselves to pillagiiig wayfarers, 
laying country places under contribution, and treating provinces like 
conquered countries. Our poverty protects us from them in that view 
of the subject, but the very fact that you are a woman, would suffice, 
at once to awaken their brutality. I think seriously of changing our 
route, and instead of going by Piseck and Budweiss, which are garri- 
sons offering a continual pretext for the marching and countermarch- 
ing of desperate soldiers, and others who are but little better, have an 
idea that we shall do better by descending the course of the Moldau, 
and following the gorges of the mountains, which are almost unin- 
habited, and which therefore present nothing to tempt either the cu- 
pidity or licentiousness of these gentlemen. We will pass over the 
river to Reidunan, and there enter Austria at once by way of 
Friestadt. Once in the territories of the empire, we shall be protected 
by a police less impotent than that of Bohemia.” 

“ And do you know the road ? ” 

“ I do not even know whether there is a road ; but I have a little 
map in my pocket, and I had laid out my plans, when I left Pilsen, to 
try and return by these mountains, in order to change my road, and 
see a little more of the country.” 

“ Well, so be it. I think your idea is a good one,” said Consuelo, 
looking at the map which Joseph had just opened. “There are foot- 
paths everywhere for foot passengers, and cottages where they Will 
receive sober people for a remuneration. I see in fact that there is a 
chain of mountains which leads us to the source of the Moldau, and 
thence down the whole length of the river.” 

“ It is the great Bdehmer-wald, the highest summits of which are 
in that region, and form the frontier between Bavaria and Bohemia. 


C O N S U E L O. 


315 

We sliall arrive there easily by keeping along the ridges, which will 
continually show us that the valleys to the right and left descend into 
one or the other of these two provinces. Since, heaven be praised ! I 
have no more to do with that odious Giants’ Castle, I am quite sure 
that I can guide you aright, and without making you go over more 
ground than is necessary.” 

“ Let us set forth, then,” said Consuelo, “ 1 feel myself perfectly 
rested. Sleep and your good bread have restored me all' my strength, 
and I can easily go a couple of miles farther to-day. Moreover, l am 
in haste to remove myself farther from this neighborhood, where I am 
in constant apprehension of meeting some face that I know.” 

“ Wait a moment,” said Joseph. “ There is a strange idea that has 
just come into my head.” 

“What is it?” 

“ If you would have no reluctance to dress yourself in boy’s clothes, 
your incognito would be made safe, and you would escape many of 
the disagreeable remarks that will be made at our halts on the score 
of you, a young girl, travelling alone in company with a youth.” 

“ The idea is not a bad one; but you forget we are not rich enough 
to make any purchases. Besides, where should I find clothes to fit 
me ? ” 

“ Listen. I should not have mentioned it, if I had not felt myself 
able to put it into play. We are precisely of the same height, which 
does more credit to you, than it does to nie; and I have in my wallet 
a full suit, perfectly new, which will disguise you admirably. This is 
the history of the suit I speak of. It is a present from my good 
mother, who, thinking to make me a very useful gift, and wishing to 
know that I was properly equipped to present myself at the embassy, 
and to give lessons to young ladies, had a village costume made for 
me, the most elegant in our part of the world. Doubtless, it is a pic- 
turesque garb, and the stuffs are well chosen, as you shall see; but 
conceive the effect I should have produced at the embassy, and the ir- 
repressible laughter of thehiece of the Abbe Metastasio, if I had made 
my appearance in this rustic cassock, and these loose plaited panta- 
loons. I thanked my good mother for her gift, and determined to sell 
it to some peasant who wanted a best suit, or to some strolling actor. 
It is for this that I brought it with me; but happily I have not been 
able to dispose of it, for the folk in this country swear it is out of 
date, and enquire whether it is Polish or Turkish.” 

“ Well, the opportunity has come,” said Consuelo, laughing. “Your 
idea is excellent, and the strolling actress will suit herself to your 
Turkish dress, the more easily tliat it is very like a short petticoat. I 
will buy this, therefore, of you, on credit be it understood; or, rather. 
I want you to be the keeper of our privy purse, and to let me know 
the sum of our expenditures when we come to Vienna.” 

“ We shall see about that,” said Joseph, putting the purse in his 
pocket, and promising himself that he would not receive any price. 

“ It only remains now to see whether it will fit you. I will go and 
hide myself in the woods, and do you enter into the recesses of these 
rocks. They will furnish you with a secure and spacious dressing 
room.” 

“ Go and make your appearance on the stage,” said Consuelo, 
laughing, “ I am going behind the^scenes.” 

And withdrawing behind the cover of the rocks, while her compan- 
ion respectfully withdrew from the vicinity, she proceeded to effect her 


316 


CONSUELO, 


transformation. The spring served her for a mirror when slie came 
out from her tiring-room, and it was not without a sense of pleasure 
that she saw reflected in it, as handsome a little peasant of the Scla- 
vonic race, as ever sprung from that wild brood. Her pliant and 
slender waist was perfectly untrammeled by the loose red woollen 
girdle; and her leg, free in its play as that of a young fawn, showed 
itself modestly to a little way above the instep, from the large folds 
of the pantaloons. Her black hair which she had never condescend- 
ed to powder, had been cut short during her illness, and curled natu- 
rally close round her face. She ran her fingers through it to give it 
something of the neglected air, which should befit a peasant boy ; and 
wearing her costume with the ease of one used to the stage, she even 
found means, thanks to her talent for mimicry, to put on an expres- 
sion full of wild simplicity, and felt, at a glance, that she was so well 
disguised, that courage and confidence returned to her on the in- 
stant. As is often the case with actors, so soon as they have put on 
their costume, she felt herself in her place, and identified herself with 
the part she was going to play so completely, that she felt, as it were, 
some degree of the heedlessness and pleasure of an innocent roving 
life; some of the gaiety, vigor and freedom of body which belongs to 
a boy whose school is by the hedge-side. 

She had to whistle three times, before Haydn, who, in his fear of 
shocking her delicacy, had withdrawn a little farther than was neces- 
sary, came back to her. When he did so, he uttered a cry of surprise 
and admiration at seeing her thus, and although he had expected to 
find her disguised, he could scarcely believe his eyes at the first glance. 
Her transformation rendered Consuelo even handsomer than before, 
and at the same time gave her an entirely different aspect in the im- 
agination of the young musician. 

The pleasure which the beauty of a woman produces on a very 
young man, is always in some sort mixed with a sort of fear; and the 
dress which makes woman, even to the least chary eyes, a veiled and 
mysterious being, has much to do with that Impression. Joseph had 
a pure and unpolluted spirit, and was not only a modest but a timid 
youth. When first he beheld Consuelo sleeping by the fountain, he 
had been dazzled by ber beauty, motionless as that of a statue, and 
animated only by the bright sunbeams which poured down upon her. 
While he conversed with her, he was conscious of emotions unknown 
before, which he had attributed only to the enthusiasm and joy pro- 
duced by so happy an encounter. But in the quarter of an hour 
which elapsed during her mysterious toilet, he had experienced violent 
palpitations, as the first incomprehensible disturbance returned upon 
him, so that he had some difficulty in preserving an unchanged aspect 
and demeanor. 

The change of costume which had succeeded so perfectly, that it 
might have passed for an actual change of sex, suddenly changed all 
the sensations of the young man, and he no longer felt anything but 
the impulse of fraternal affection towards this charming and agreea- 
ble travelling companion. The same ardent desire to roam and see 
the country, the same security as to the perils of the road, the same 
sympathetic gaiety which animated Consuelo at this instant, took 
possession of him likewise; and they set forth on the journey through 
the woods and meadows, as light a% two birds of passage. 

Nevertheless, after a few steps, Joseph remembered that she was 
not a boy, and seeing that she carried her little packet of clothes, aug- 


CONSUELO. 


317 


mented by the woman’s garb which she had just removed, on the end 
of a stick across her shoulder, he insisted on relieving her of it. There- 
on a contest arose. Consuelo insisted that, with his own knapsack, 
his violin, and his Gradus ad Parnassiim, Joseph was sufficiently 
loaded. Joseph, on the other hand, swore that he would put the 
whole of Consuelo’s parcel into his knapsack, and that she should 
carry nothing. She was compelled to yield, but in order that she 
might seem to be carrying something, he consented that she should 
carry the violin in a sling. 

“ Do you know,” said Consuelo, in order to bring him to yield this 
point, “ that I look as if I were your servant, or at least your guide, 
for I am a peasant at a glance, while you are a citizen ? ” 

“ What sort of citizen?” asked Haydn, laughing; “I have not a 
bad cut, certainly, for Keller, the barber’s boy.” And as he spoke, the 
young man could not help feeling a little annoyance at being unable 
to show himself to Consuelo in something better than his travel- 
stained and sun-bleached attire. 

“No!” said Consuelo, laughing, “you look more like the prodigal 
son of some good family returning home with his gardener’s boy, the 
comrade of his frolics.” 

“ By the way, I think we had better hit upon some parts in accord- 
ance with our situation,” replied Joseph. “ We can only pass for 
what we are — at least for the present— poor travelling artists ; and as it 
is the custom of the profession to dress one's self as lie can, according 
to the means he finds and the money he earns, as we, after the profes- 
sors in our line, wearing, about the country, the undress of a marquis 
or of a soldier, so there will be nothing odd in my wearing the seedy 
black coat of a second-rate professor, or in your adopting the garb of 
a Hungarian peasant, though it be strange hereabout. We can even 
say, if questioned about it, that we have recently made a tour in that 
part of the country, and I can talk to the point about the celebrated 
village of Rohran which no one ever heard of, and the splendid town 
of Hamburgh, which no one cares a farthing about. As for you, since 
your pretty little accent will always betray you, you had better not 
deny that you are an Italian singer.” 

“ True enough; and we had better have travelling names too— it is 
usual. 1 can suit myself with yours, for, according to my Italian 
habit, I ought to call you Beppo, which is short for Joseph.” 

“ Call me whatever you will; I have the advantage of being as little 
known under one name as under another. With you it is different. 
You 7 nust have one; which will you choose? ” 

“ The first Venetian abbreviation that comes — Nello — Maso — Ren- 
zo — Zoto — oh! no, not that,” she cried, recollecting herself as she 
thoughtlessly mentioned the childish abbreviation of Anzoleto. 

“ Why not that? ” asked Joseph, struck by her energetic manner. 

“Because it will bring me bad luck: they say there are names 
which do so.” 

“ Well, how shall we baptize you? ” 

“ Bertoni. It is an Italian name, at all events, and a sort of diminu- 
tive of Albert.” 

“II Signor Bertoni! That sounds well,” said Joseph, forcing a 
smile; but this recollection of her noble lover, on Consuelo’s part, 
gave him a pang. He looked back at her w'alking along secure and at 
her ease ; and, “ by-the-bye,” he said, as if to console himself, “ I for- 
got that it is a boy.” 


818 


C O N S U K L O. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

They soon reached the skirts of the wood and took their course 
towards the south-east. CoTJSuelo w-alked bareheaded, and Joseph, 
though he saw that the sun M^as scorching her clear fair skin, could 
not remedy it. His own hat was not new and he could not offer it, 
and not choosing to display a useless anxiety he would not speak, but 
taking his hat off suddenly, he put it under his arm. 

“ That is a queer notion,” said she to him. “Do you find the sky 
cloudy and the plain overshadowed? That makes me remember that 
my head is bare, and as I have not always possessed all luxuries, I 
know how to help myself.” As she spoke thus, she snatched a brancli 
of wild vine from a neighboring thicket, and rolling it round itself, 
made herself a sort of green turban. 

“Now she looks like a muse,” thought Joseph, “and the boy is 
gone again.” But ere long they passed a village in which they found 
one of those country shops at which you can buy everything, and 
going into it suddenly before she could anticipate him, he bought one 
of those straw hats with broad brims turned up at the side, which are 
worn by the peasants of the valleys of the Danube. 

“ If you begin plunging into these luxuries,” she said, as she tried 
on her new head-dress, “ our bread will give out before we reach our 
journey’s end.” 

“ Your bread give out,” cried Joseph, quickly. “ I would rather 
beg of the people in the streets; I would rather turn somersets in 
the public places — what would I not rather do? — No, you shall want 
nothing while you are with me.” Then seeing that Consuelo was 
somewhat astonished at this outbreak, he added, trying to fall back 
upon good-fellowship, “ Look you, Signor Bertoni, my prospects de- 
pend on you. my fortunes are in your hand, and it is my interest to 
bring you safely honie to Master Porpora.” 

The idea of her companion falling suddenly in love with her, now 
came into Consuelo’s head. In fact, modest and simple-minded wo- 
men seldom think of such things until they occur. Besides which, 
Consuelo was two years older than Haydn, and he was so small and 
slight that he scarce looked above fifteen, and though she knew him 
to be past that age, still, as even very young girls are apt to regard 
men younger than themselves, she looked on Haydn as a mere boy. 
Nevertheless, she saw that he was unusually affected, and once catch- 
ing his eyes steadfastly fixed upon her own, she said frankly, “ What 
is the matter with you, friend Beppo? It seems to me that you are 
full of cares ; and I cannot get rid of the idea that my company em- 
barrasses you.” 

“ Say not so,” he cried, with evident vexation. “ To say so is to 
show that you have no esteem, no confidence in me, which I would 
buy at my life’s fee.” 

“ If it be so, be not so sad ; that is to say, if you have no cause of 
sadness but those you have named to me.” 

Joseph fell into a dull silence, and they walked a good way before 
he had courage to break it; but feeling at length that every moment 
rendered it more difficult to do so, and fearing that the cause wouk’ 
be suspected, he made a great effort and said, “ Do you know what I 
have been thinking about very seriously?” 


C 0 N S U E L O. 319 

“ I do not even guess,” said Consuelo, who, absorbed in her own 
thoughts, had not even noticed Joseph’s silence. 

“ I was thinking, that as we journey together, if it would not bore 
you, you might teach me Italian. 1 began to read it this winter, but 
liaving no one to teach me the pronunciation, I dare not speak a 
word before you. Nevertheless I understand what I read, and if, as 
we travel along, you would be so good as to shake off my inaitvaUe 
Jionte. and to correct me when I err, I believe my ear is sufficiently 
musical to catch the accent ere long.” 

“Oh! with all my heart,” said Consuelo, “I delight above all 
things in allowing no moment of life to pass without learning some- 
thing; and as we learn in the very act of teaching, it must needs be 
very good for us both to practice the pronunciation of the language 
which is par excellence that of music. You fancy that I am an 
Italian, but I am not, although I speak it with scarcely any accent; 
but I pronounce it much the most truly when I sing, and whenever 
I find any difficulty occurring to you, I will sing the words. I am 
satisfied that we never pronounce ill but because we do not under- 
stand well. If the ear clearly detects the exact shade of sound, it is 
but an effort of memory to repeat it.” 

“ It will then be at once a lesson iji Italian and in singing,” cried 
Joseph, “ and a lesson, too, which is to last fifty leagues. Ah! by my 
honor, long life to art, the least dangerous and the least ungratefid 
of all amourettes.” 

The lesson began at once, and Consuelo, who had at first hard work 
to avoid bursting out laughing at every word Joseph uttered in Italian, 
soon began to wonder at the quickness and correctness with which 
he caught the true sounds. Nevertheless the young musician who 
was ardently desirous of hearing her singing, had recourse to a little 
stratagem to make her do so; he pretended to be unable to give the 
perfect fulness and openness of sound to the Italian a, and he sang a 
phrase of Leo’s, in which the word Felicita is several times repeated. 
Then Consuelo without stopping, or losing her breath any more 
than if she had been sitting at her piano, sang it to him several times. 
At those full and generous notes, so penetrating, that no others, at 
that day, could compare with th^m, the world through, Joseph actu- 
ally shuddered, as he rubbed his hands together, and uttered a low 
and passionate exclamation of delight. 

“ It is your turn to try it now,” cried Consuelo, without observing 
his ecstacies. 

Haydn tried the phrase, and executed it so well that his young in- 
structress clapped her hands, crying, good-naturedly, “ Wonderfully 
well done. You learn quickly, and you have a magnificent voice.” 

“ You may say what you will to me on that head.” replied Joseph, 
“ but it seems to me that I shall never dare to speak to yon of your- 
self.” 

“ And wherefore so?” said Consuelo. But as she turned towards 
him she saw that his eyes were full of tears, and that he was clasping 
his hands together until the bones cracked, as frivolous boys, or very 
enthusiastic men, will do at times. 

“ Do not let us sing any more,” said she. “ Here comes some men 
on horseback to seek us.” 

“ By no means! Keep silence!” answered Joseph, still half beside 
himself. “ Do not let them hear you, for they will dismount, and 
worship you if they do.” 


320 


CONSUELO. 


“ I have no great fear of their music-mania — they are butcher boys 
with calves slung behind them.” 

The rest of the day passed in alternations of serious studies and 
lively conversation. Agitated as he was, Joseph was very happy, and 
was ignorant himself whether he was one of the most trembling wor- 
shippers of beauty, or one of the most radiant adorers of art. Con- 
suelo occupied all his thoughts, and transformed his whole existence. 
Towards evening he perceived that she dragged her steps heavily, and 
that her pleasure was overpowered by w^eariness. It is true that for 
several hours notwithstanding the frequent lialts they had made in 
shady spots by the way-side, she had been almost broken by fatigue, 
but siie cared not for that, and even if it had not been so, she would 
have desired to obtain distraction from her mental sufferings in quick 
motion, and even in forced gaiety. The first shades of evening, as 
they overspread the country with a gloomy hue, brought back the 
dismal coloring of her soul, which she had so bravely combated. She 
thought of the sad evening that was about to commence at the Giants’ 
Castle, and of the night, terrible, perhaps, and horrid, which Albert 
was about to undergo. As the idea struck her, she stopped involun- 
tarily at the foot of a great wooden cross standing on a bare hillock, 
which indicated the theatre of some traditionary miracle or — crime. 

“Alas! you are more weary than you will admit,” said Joseph. 
“ But our day’s tramp is nearly at an end, for I see the lights of a ham- 
let glittering from the gorge of that ravine. Perhaps you think I have 
not the strength to carry you —yet if you would ” 

“ My dear friend,” said she, “ you are very proud of your sex, I beg 
you to have a little more faith in mine, and to believe that I have more 
strength left to my share, than you to your own. I am a little out of 
breath with climbing that steep path so much; and if I rest myself, it 
is only that I want to sing.” 

“Heaven be praised,” cried Joseph. “Sing here then at the foot 
of the cross, and I will kneel down here. Nevertheless, suppose this 
should tire you more ? ” 

“ It will not be so long,” said Consuelo; “ but a fancy has taken me 
to sing a verse of a canticle which my mother used to make me sing 
with her, night and morning, in the open country, whenever we fell 
in with a chapel or a cross planted like this at the intersection of four 
ways.” 

Consuelo’s idea was even more romantic than she was willing to 
admit. As she thought of Albert, slie reflected upon that strange and 
half supernatural faculty which he had of seeing and hearing things 
at a distance; she thought that at this very hour he was probably 
thinking of her, perhaps even saw her; and half dreaming that she 
could alleviate his sorrows by addressing him in a sympathetic song, 
sent through distance and darkness, she mounted the pile of stones 
W'hich formed the abutment of the cross. Then turning toward that 
part of the horizon behind which lay Riesenberg, she simg at the full 
compass of her voice the first stanza of the Spanish canticle 

“Consuelo de mi alma," etc. 

“My God! My God!” said Haydn to himself, as she finished 
her song. “I never heard singing before; I knew not what 
singing is. Can there be other human voices like to this? Shall I 
ever again hear anything comparable to what you liave revealed to 


•CONSUELO. 321 

me to-day? Oh! music! holy music! O genius of the art ! how thou 
enflamest, how thou terrifiest me.” 

Consuelo descended from the stone on which she had stood display- 
ing, like a Madonna, the elegant outline of her figure in profile, re- 
lieved against the clear dark blue of the covering sky. In her turn, 
inspired, after Albert’s manner, she fancied she could see him, 
through woods, across mountains, over valleys, seated upmi the 
Scheckenstein, calm, resigned, and filled with a holy hope. “ He has 
' heard me,” she thought within herself; “ be has recognised my voice 
and the song which he loves. He has understood me, and will now 
return to the castle, embrace his father, and perhaps enjoy a quiet 
night’s repose.” 

” All goes well,” she added, speaking to Joseph, but without notic- 
ing his gaze of ardent admiration. Then, turning back, she kissed 
the rough wood of the rustic cross. Perhaps at that moment, by some 
strange approximation, Albert felt an electrical commotion which un- 
bent the spring of his gloomy will, and sank into the most mysterious 
depths of his being the delights of a heavenly tranquillity. Perhaps 
it was at that very moment that he fell into the deep and healthful 
sleep, in which his father, an uneasy and easily awaked sleeper, found 
him buried on the following morn at daybreak. 

The hamlet, the fires of which they had perceived in the distance, 
was no more than a great faim, where they were received with hospi- 
tality. A family of honest laborers were eating out of doors, on a 
rough wooden table, at which they made room for them both, without 
difficulty and without haste. No questions were asked them. In fact 
they were hardly looked at. The good folk, wearied with a long and 
hot day’s toil, took their meal in silence, absoihed in the enjoyment of a 
pleutifiil though simple meal. Consuelo thought her supper delicious; 
Joseph thought nothing about it, for he was absorbed in admiring 
Consuelo’s pale and noble head, contrasted with the coarse sunburned 
features of the peasants, gentle and dull as those of the great oxen 
which fed around them, and which scarce made more noise than they, 
as they chewed the cud slowly with their ponderous jaws. Each of 
the company retired silently, so soon as he was satisfied with eating, 
having made the sign of the cross, and at once went to sleep, leaving 
the strangers’ appetites to prolong at will the pleasures of the table. 
The women who had waited on these sat down in their places, when 
they had finished, and applied themselves to supper, with their child- 
ren. More animated and more curious than the men, they detained 
and questioned the young travellers. It was Joseph’s part to make 
up their story, but he scarcely departed from the truth, when he told 
them that he and his companion were two poor strolling musicians. 
“ What a pity that it is not Sunday,” said one of the younger girls. 
“ You could have played for us to dance.” Then they paid a great 
deal of attention to Consuelo, whom they examined very closely, 
thinking her a very pretty boy ; while she, to support her character, 
looked back at them with a confident and steady eye. She had sigh- 
ed, for one instant, almost in envy of that peaceful patriarchal life, 
from which her own active and locomotive profession must ever keep 
her aloof; but when she observed these poor women standing erect 
behind their husbands, waiting on them respectfully, and then gaily 
eating their leavings, some nursing their little ones, and others already 
slaves, through the force of instinct, to their boys, of whom they 
seemed to think more than of themselves or of their little girls, she 
20 


322 


CONSUELO. 


ceased to see aoy thing in these good cultivatoi-s of the earth, beyond 
mere subjects of necessity and hunger. The males chained down to 
the soil, valets of their ploughs and their cattle — the females chained 
down to the master, that is to say, to man, cloistered in the house, 
servants in perpetuity, and condemned to incessaiit labor amid the 
sufferings and toils of maternity — then this apparent serenity appear- 
ed to Consuelo only the debasement arising from stupidity, or the tor- 
por arising from hunger, and she said, ‘‘ Better to be an artist, or a 
Bohemian Wanderer, than either lord or peasant; since to the posses- 
sion of a rood of ground or of a sheaf of wheat, either the unjust 
tyranny or the mournful enslavement of avarice attaches , — viva la 
liberta ! ^’ she said to Joseph, to whom she expressed her ideas in 
Italian, while the women were washing and arranging the crockery 
ware with a great noise, while an old good wife was turning her spin- 
ning wheel with the regularity of a machine. 

Joseph was surprised to oi)serve that some of the women spoke 
German passably well ; and from them he learned that the head of 
the family, although he now saw him wearing the dress of a peasant, 
was of good birth, and had, in his youth, enjoyed both fortune and 
education; but that having been entirely ruined in the wars of the 
Succession, he had no other resource than to attach himself as a 
farmer to a neighboi ing abbey, which racked him miserably by rights 
of mitrage and other church dues, over and above the usual rent and 
tithes. 

“ See, Joseph, did I not tell you truly ? ” asked Consuelo, “ when I 
told you that we are the only rich in the world, who pay no tax on 
our voices, and who work only when we will.” 

Before bed-tiine came Consuelo was so tired that she fell asleep on 
a bench by the side of the door; and Joseph took advantage of the 
opportunity to ask the farmer’s wife for beds. 

‘‘ Beds, my lad !” said she, smiling; “ if we could give you one, it 
would be a great deal, and you should be glad to make one do for 
both of you.” 

The i-eply made the blood mount to Joseph's face. He looked at 
Consuelo, but fortunately she had not understood a word that was 
passing. 

“ My companion is very tired,” said he, “ and if you could give him 
a little bed, I could sleep cheerfully wherever it might suit, in a stable, 
or a corner of a hayloft.” 

Well, if the boy is ailing, for humanity’s sake, we will give him a 
bed in the common chamber; our three daughters shall sleep togeth- 
er; but you must tell your companion to behave himself decently, for 
my husband and my son-in-law who sleep in the same room, will soon 
bring him to some reason, if he do not.” 

“I will be answerable for the good conduct and civility of my 
friend ; I have only to ascertain whether he would not prefer a bed 
in the hay, to a room with so many sleepers.” 

Joseph had now to awaken the Signor Bertoni, in order to propose 
this arrangement to him. Consuelo was not so much startled as he 
had expected. She thought that as the young girls were to sleep in 
the same room with the father and brother-in-law, she should be safer 
there than elsewhere; therefore, having wished Joseph good-night, 
she slipjjed behind the four brown woollen curtains which enclosed 
the designated bed, and scarcely taking time to undress, fell sound 
asleep. 


C O N S U E L O, 


823 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

She was, however, after an hour or two of that heavy sleep, awa- 
kened by the continual noise around her; on one side the old grand- 
mother, whose bed almost touched her own, coughed and rattled all 
night long, with a most dreadful wheezing. On the other side, a 
young woman was nursing her child, and singing it to sleep; the 
snoring of the men resembled the roaring of wiTd beasts; a child, of 
whom there were four in a bed, was bellowing as he quarreled with 
his brothers; then all the women got up at once, to make peace, and 
by their threats and scolding, made more noise than all the rest to- 
gether. This perpetual bustle, the yelling of the children, the un- 
cleanliness, the heavy smell and close atmosphere, charged with foul 
miasmata, became so disagreeable to Consuelo, that she could hold 
out no longer. Dressing herself quietly, and taking advantage of a 
moment, when every one appeared to be asleep, she stole out of the 
house to seek a place where she might sleep quietly till morning. 

She felt even that she could sleep more comfortably in the open air. 
Having passed the preceding night in exercise, she had not been 
aware of the cold ; but now, besides that she was in an exhausted 
state of body very different from the excitement she had then expe- 
rienced, the climate of this elevated region was by far severer than 
that of Riesehberg. She felt herself shivering, and a great sense of 
discomfort led her to fear that she should be unable to endure, in suc- 
cession, many days of toil and nights of watching, since the beginning 
of them was so uncomfortable. It was in vain that she reproached 
herself with having become, as it were, a princess during her stay at 
the castle ; she woidd almost have given the rest of her days for one 
hour of refreshing sleep. 

Nevertheless, not daring to return into the house at the risk of 
awakening and disturbing her entertainers, she sought the door of the 
outhouses, and finding that of the stables open, she groped her way 
in by the sense of touch. Everything was profoundly silent; and 
judging therefrom that the place was empty, she stretched herself out 
in a crib full of straw, the scent and warmth of which were delicious 
to her. 

She had almost fallen asleep, when she felt a warm and damp 
breath blowing upon her forehead, which ceased with a violent snort, 
and a half stifled sound of dissatisfaction. Her first alarm passed, 
she saw in the twilight, which was beginning to dawn, a long face and 
a pair of formidable horns above her head. It was a fine cow, which 
having thrust her head over the rack, and snuffed with astonishment, 
had started back in dismay. Her ear now became speedily accustom- 
ed to all the sounds of the stable — the ringing of the chains in their 
staples, the lowing of the heifers, and the rubbing of their horns 
against the bars of the cribs. She fell asleep, nor did she wake again 
until it was broad day, even when the milkmaids entered the stable to 
drive out the cows, and milk them in the open air. The darkness of 
the place prevented her discovery, and the sun was up when she 
openecl her eyes. Nestled in the straw, she enjoyed her situation for 
a few moments longer, but soon found herself so completely rested, 
that she felt no doubt any more of being able to resume her journey 
with ease and comfort. 


324 


CONSUELO 


So soon as she jumped now out of her crib, the first object she be- 
held was Joseph seated opposite to her, on the crib facing that in 
which she had slept. 

“ You have made me very uneasy, dear Signor Bertoni,” said he, 
“ when the young women told me that you had left their apartment, 
and that no one knew whither you had gone. I sought for you every- 
where, in vain, and it was only in despair of finding you, that I re- 
turned hither, where I spent last night, and where to my great sur- 
prise 1 found you. I came out while it was yet dark, and, of course 
did not think of looking for you here, under the horns of these ani- 
mals, which might have injured you, nestling in the straw opposite to 
me. Indeed, signora, you are very rash, and you do not consider the 
perils of all kinds to which you are exposing yourself.” 

“What perils, my dear Beppo ?” asked Consuelo, extending her 
hand. “ These good cows are gentle beasts, and I frightened them 
more than they could have injured me.” 

“ But, signora,” said Joseph, lowering his voice, “ you came here in 
the middle of the night to seek shelter, wherever you might find it. 
Other men might have been in this stable beside me — some vagabond 
less respectful than your faithful and devoted Beppo — some rude serf, 
perhaps. If, instead of the crib you chose, you had taken the other, 
and startled not me, but some rustic, or some brutal soldier from his 
slumbers.” 

Consuelo blushed as she remembered that she had slept so near to 
Joseph, alone, and in utter darkness; but her sense of shame only 
increased her confidence in that good young man. 

“Joseph,” she said to him, “ do you not see that in all my impru- 
dences, heaven is still near to me, and brings me near to you. It is 
Providence which brought me yesterday to the spring where I found 
you, where you gave me your bread, your friendship, and you protec- 
tion. It is Providence, again, which has, this night, placed my care- 
less sleep under safeguard of your paternal care.” 

Then she related to him with a laugh, the comfortless night which 
she had spent in the common chamber of the farm, and how tran- 
quilly and happily she had slept among the cows. 

“ Can it then be true,” said Joseph, “ that these animals have a 
more agreeable habitation, and more refined manners than the men 
who take care of them ? ” 

“It is of that I was thinking when I fell asleep. The animals 
caused me neither fear nor disgust; and I reproached myself with 
having contracted notions and habits so aristocratical, that the society 
of my equals, and the contact of their indigeiice, had become intoler- 
able to me. Whence comes this, Joseph? He who is born in misery 
ought not, when he falls back into it, to experience that disdainful re- 
pugnance to it to which I have given way ; and when the heart has 
been once vitiated by the atmosphere of wealth, why does it remain 
habitualy delicate, as I have shown, by flying from the nauseating 
heat, and noisy confusion of this poor covey of human beings? ” 

“ It is, that cleanliness, pure air, and good order within doors are to 
all choice and fine organizations absolute and legitimate necessities,” 
replied Joseph. “ Whoever is born an artist has a taste for whatever 
is beautiful and good, an antipathy to whatever is coarse and hideous 
— and misery is both coarse and hideous. I am a peasant, and my 
parents gave me birth beneath a roof of thatch, — but they were 
artists; wur house, though poor and small, was clean and well ar- 


CONSUELO. 


825 

ranged. It is true that our poverty was near akin to comfort, and 
perhaps excessive privation takes away even the perception of better 
tastes.” 

“Poor wretches,” said Consuelo, “were I rich, I would at once 
build them a house; and were I a queen, I would abate all the im- 
posts, and put down all these monks and Jews who eat them out.” 

“ If you were rich, you would not think — if you were a queen, you 
would not choose — to do it. Thus goes the world.” 

“ The world goes ill then.” 

“ Alas! too true! and were it not for the music which transports us 
into an ideal world, one could but kill himself to think of the horrors 
which are daily passing in this world.” 

“To kill himself w'ere easy enough, but whom does it profit, save 
himself? .Joseph, one must become rich, and continue human in or- 
der to do good.” 

“ And since that is impossible for all, it were necessary, at least, 
that all the poor should become artists.” 

“ That is not a bad idea, Joseph. If all the poor had some percep- 
tion, and some love of art, to lend a coloring to their poverty and to 
embellish their misery, there would no longer exist uncleanliness, or 
despair, or self forgetfulness; and then the rich would not so despise, 
and so trample on the poor. Artists are always in some degree re- 
spected.” 

“Ah! you make me think of that, then, for the first time,” said 
Haydn. “Art, then, can have a serious end — can be useful to 
men ? ” 

“ Did you think, then, that it was but an amusement? ” 

“ No— but a disease, a passion, a storm raging at the heart, a fever 
enkindling itself within us, wdiich we communicate to others. If you 
know what it is, instruct me.” 

,“I will instruct you, when I know myself; but, doubtless, it is 
something great — never doubt of that, Joseph. Come, let us set forth, 
and let us not forget the violin, friend Beppo, your only present prop- 
erty, and the source of your future opulence.” 

They began by making their little provisions for the breakfast, 
which they intended to eat on the grass in some romantic spot; but 
when Joseph pulled out his jmrse to pay for it, the farmer’s wife 
smiled and refused to receive anything, firmly, though without affec- 
tation. In spite of Consuelo’s urgency, she would accept nothing, 
and even watched her young guests, to prevent their slipping any 
little gift into the hands of the children. 

“ Becall to your mind,” she said at last, and that a little proudly, 
when Joseph pressed the point, “that my husband is noble by birth; 
and do not suppose that poverty has so far degraded him, that he is 
willing to sell hospitality.” 

“ Such pride as that appears to me a little overdone,” said Joseph 
to his fellow-traveller, when they were again afoot. “There is more 
of pride than of charity in the feeling which animates them.” 

“ I will see nothing in it but charity,” replied Consuelo, “and I feel 
bitterly ashamed, and wholly penitent that I was unable to endure 
the inconveniences of a house which did not fear the taint and pollu- 
tion of the vagabond whom I represented. Ah! cursed refinement — 
absurd delicacy of the spoiled children of the world! thou art but a 
malady, since thou art but health to the one, in order to be a detri- 
ment to another.” 


326 


C O N S U E L O. 


“ For a /rood artist as you are, I think you are by far too sensible to 
things which pass here below,” said Joseph. “It seems to me, that 
an artist should have a certain degree of indifference and forgetfulness 
as to everything which does not belong to his profession. In the inn, 
at Klatau!, when I heard you and the Giants’ Castle spoken of, they 
said that in the midst of all his eccentricities, Count Albert is a great 
philosopher. You perceive, signora, that one could not be, at one 
and the same time, a great artist and a philosopher; that is the reason 
of your flight. Do not suffer yourself, then, to be moved any farther 
by the sufferings of mortals, and let us resume our yesterday’s 
lesson.” 

“I will gladly, Beppo; but know first that philosopher or uot, 
Count Albert is a much greater artist than we.” 

“ Indeed. Then he wants nothing to render him an object of 
love,” said Joseph with a sigh. 

“ Nothing in my eyes but to be poor, and of humble birth,” replied 
Consuelo, and wrought upon by the attentions Joseph paid her, and 
excited to enthusiasm by the singular questions he put to her, trem- 
bling as he did so, she suffered herself to be led away into the pleas- 
ure of conversing something at length about her betrothed. Every 
reply led to an explanation, and one detail drawing on another, she 
at length began to relate to him somewhat minutely, all the particu- 
lars of the affection with which Albert had inspired her. The name 
of Anzoleto, however, never once came to her lips, and she perceived 
with pleasure that it had never once occurred to her to speak of him, 
in reference to her sojourn in Bohemia. 

These revelations, displaced, and rash as they were, brought on the 
best results. They made Joseph comprehend fully, how deeply the 
mind of Consuelo was engaged, and the vague hopes which he began 
almost involuntarily to conceive, vanished like dreams, of which he 
strove to banish even the memory. After a silence of some duration, 
which followed their animated conversation, he took a firm resolution 
to look at her in future neither as a beautiful siren, nor as a danger- 
ous companion, but simply as a great artist and noble woman, whose 
counsels and friendship must needs exercise a beneficial influence on 
his life. As much to respond to her confidence, as to put a double 
barrier on his own resolution, he opened his heart to her likewise, 
and told her how he, like herself, was engaged, and so to speak be- 
trothed. The romance of his heart was less poetical than that of 
Consuelo, but to those who know the issue of Haydn’s life, it was not 
less pure and noble. He had exhibited some regard to the daughter 
of his generous host, Keller the wig-maker, and he, observing their 
sincere affection, said, “ Joseph, I put my trust in you. You seem to 
love my daughter, and I see that you are not indifferent to her. If 
you prove as true as you are industrious and grateful, so soon as you 
shall have ensured yourself a livelihood, you shall be my son-in-law.” 
In a moment of enthusiastic gratitude, Joseph had promised, had 
sworn, and though he had not the slightest passion for his betrothed, 
he regarded himself as fettered fast for ever. 

He related this tale with deep melancholy, which he could not 
overcome, as he thought of the difference between his real position, 
and the intoxicating dreams which he must now renounce for ever. 
Consuelo supposed that this sadness was a proof of the depth of his 
passion for Keller’s daughter. He dared not undeceive her, and con- 
sequently her esteem and perfect reliance on the loyalty and purity 


C O N S U E L O. 


327 

( f Beppo, hourly augmented. Their journey was troubled therefore 
by none of those crises and explosions wiiicii might have been pre- 
saged as likely to occur during a tete-a-tete of a fortnight’s duration, 
surrounded by all circumstances which tend to secure impunity be- 
tween two young persons, both amiable and intelligent, and filled 
with mutual sympathy. Although Haydn did not love Keller’s 
daughter, he was content to take his fidelity of conscience for fidelity 
of the heart, and although he sometimes felt the storm growling at 
his heart, he was able to master himself so completely, that his "fair 
companion, sleeping in the deep woods or on the heather, which he 
watched like a dog at her side, traversing deep solitudes in his com- 
pany afar from the haunts of men, passing many times the night be- 
side him in the same hayloft, or tlie same cavern, never suspecting 
the temptations to which he was subjected, or admitted the merits of 
his victory. When in his old age, Haydn read the first books of Jean- 
Jacques-Rousseau’s confessions, it was with a smile blended with a 
tear as he recalled to mind his passage across the Boehmer-wald with 
Consuelo, with trembling love and pious innocence as the companions 
of their journey. 

“Once, indeed, the young artist was in a position of the deadliest 
danger. When the weather was fine, the roads easy, and the moon 
brilliant, they adopted the true mode of travelling on foot without 
running the risk of bad lodgings. They took tip their abode for the 
day in some pleasant shady place, where they chatted, dined, practised 
music, slept, and when the evening began to grow cold, packed up 
their luggage and walked on again until day-light. Thus they avoid- 
ed the fatigue of walking in die full heat of the sun, the danger of 
being curiously scrutinized, and the uncleanliness and expense of 
hotels. 

But when the rain, which became very frequent in the higher por- 
tions of the Bbehmer-wald near the sources of the Moldau, forced them 
to take shelter, they did so, as they could, sometimes in the hut of 
some serf, sometimes in the granaries of some castle-ward. They al- 
ways carefully avoided wayside-inns, where they might much more 
easily have obtained lodgings, but where they were sure to fall among 
rude, perhaps insulting company, and scenes of outrage. 

Ope night during a violent tempest they entered a goat-herd’s hut, 
who, as his only welcome, exclaimed, as he yawned and stretched his 
arm towards his sheepfold, “ Go into the hay.” 

Consuelo stole away as was her custom to ensconce herself in the 
darkest corner, and Joseph made his way toward another, when he 
stumbled over the legs of a man who was asleep, and who swore 
liorribly, though but half awakened. Other imprecations replied to 
bis oatiis, and Joseph, frightened at the company, drew near to Con- 
suelo, and caught her by the arm to make sure that no one should 
inteipose l)etween them. His first idea was to depart, but the rain 
fell in torrents on the plank roof of the hut, and every one was fast 
.isleep. “ Let us stay,” whispered Joseph “ until the rain ceases. 
Yon may sleep without fear, for 1 shall not close an eye, and shall 
r.Muaiu beside you; no one can suspect that there is a woman here. 
When the weather becomes tolerable I will waken yon and we will 
slip out of doors.” Consuelo hesitated; but there was more danger in 
going than in remaining. Should the goat-herd and his guests 
remark her apprehension of them, they would undoubtedly suspect 
something either that her sex or her possession of money rendered 


328 


C O N S U E L O. 


her fearful; and if these men were capable of ill in|entions, they 
could easily follow them into the country and attack them there. 
Consuelo having reflected on all this, remained quiet, but she wound 
her arm into that of Joseph, through a very natural sensation of 
alarm, and of confidence in his vigilant protection. 

When the rain ceased, as neither one nor the other had slept, they 
were on the point of going forth, when they heard their unknown 
companions rising, and talking one with another in some incompre- 
hensible slang, as they lifted their heavy packets, and loaded them on 
their shoulders. They then withdrew after exchanging a few words 
in German with the goat-herd, which led Joseph to think that they 
were smugglers, and that their host was in their confidence. It was 
barely midnight, but the moon was rising, and by a gleam which 
fell on them obliquely through the half-open door, Consuelo saw the 
flash of their arms, which they were endeavoring to conceal under 
their cloaks. At the same time she was satisfied that no one re- 
mained in the hut, for the goat-herd himself went out with the con- 
trabandists, whom he promised to guide through the mountain 
passes, leaving her alone with Haydn. She heard him tell them, that 
he could lead them to the frontiers by a route known to bimself 
only; and one of those stern resolute-faced men replied — “If you 
deceive us, I will blow your brains out on the first suspicion.” Their 
measured tramp re-echoed on the gravel for some minutes. The 
sound of a neighboring brook, however, swollen by the rains, covered 
that of their march which was soon lost in the distance. 

“ We had no occasion to fear them,” said Joseph; “ they are per- 
sons who avoid the eyes of men, even more than we do.” 

“ And for that very reason,” said Consuelo, “I think that we were 
in danger. When you stumbled over them in the dark, you did wtfll 
in making no reply to their oaths. They took you for one of them- 
selves, otherwise they would have feared us as spies, and we should 
have been in an awkward position. Thank God, however, we have 
no more to fear, and we are once again alone.” 

“ Go to sleep, then,” said Joseph, as Consuelo withdrew her arm 
from his own. “ I will keep watch still, and at daybreak we will set 
forth.” 

Consuelo had been oppressed more by fear than by fatigue, and she 
was so much in the habit of sleeping by the side of her friend, that 
she yielded to her weariness, and slumbered almost instantly. But 
Joseph, who had also fallen into the custom of sleeping tranquilly 
and almost unconsciously at her side, on this occasion, could not rest. 
Everything disturbed him — the melancholy sound of the streamlet, 
the wind complaining through the fir trees, the moonbeams falling 
through a chink in the roof, and faintly illuminating the pale face of 
Consuelo, set -otf by her jet black hair; and, lastly, I know not what 
of the wild and savage, which seems to exist in the heart of every 
man, and to be awakened in him, when all around is wild and savage. 
At length day broke, and as he could now distinctly see the pure 
grave features of Consuelo, he was ashamed at his own thoughts and 
sufferings. He went out and bathed his head and hair in the'ice-cold 
waters of the stream, and that done, felt as if he had washed away 
the guilty thoughts which had inflamed his brain. 

Consuelo soon joined him, and performed the same ablutions to 
arouse herself from the exhaustion which succeeds a deep sleep, and 
to familiarize herself at a single motion with the chill atmosphere of 


CONSUELO. 329 

the early morning. She was astonished to see Haydn look so over- 
come and so sad. 

“ Oh! now indeed, .Brother Beppo,” she said to him, “you do not 
bear fatigue and emotion so well as I do. You are as pale as these 
little flowers, which look as if they were weeping into the face of the 
stream.” 

“And you,” said Haydn, “ are asfresh as these beautiful wild roses, 
which look as though they smiled upon its banks. I know, however, 
that I can defy fatigue in spite of my pallid face; but as to emotion, 
signora, it is true that I know not how to endure it.” 

He was sad all the morning: and, when they stopped to eat their 
bread and hazel nuts on a beautiful sloping meadow under the shelter 
of a wuld vine, she pressed him with so many artless questions on the 
causes of his gloomy mood, that he could not refrain from answering 
her with words full of despite against himself and his destinies. 

“Well, if you must know,” said he, “learn that I am unhappy, 
because I am drawing daily nearer to Vienna, where my destiny is 
engaged, although my heart is not. I do not love my betrothed, and 
yet I will keep iny promise, for I have promised.” 

“ Is it possible ? ” cried Consuelo, struck with surprise. “ In that 
case, my poor Beppo, our fortunes, which I thought so much alike in 
many points, are utterly dissimilar, for you are hastening toward a 
bride whom you do not love, and I am flying from a lover whom I do 
love. Strange fortune, which gives to these that which they dread, 
and snatches from those that which they adore.” 

She pressed his hand affectionately as she spoke, and Joseph saw 
clearly that her reply was not dictated by the suspicion of his temerity, 
or the desire of reading him a lesson ; but the lesson w’as none the 
less efficacious. She pitied his misfortune, and mourned over it with 
him, even while she showed him, by the deep and sincere utterance 
of her own heart, that she loved another immutably, and with all her 
heart. 

That was Joseph’s last folly towards her. He snatched his violin, 
and, as he scraped it violently, forgot the storms of the past night. 
When they set forth again upon their road, he had completely abjured 
his love as a thing impossible, and the events which followed, but 
caused him to feel the more strongly the potency of friendsh'ip and 
devotion. When Consuelo saw a dark shadow' fall upon his brow, 
and when she endeavored by gentle words to assuage his sorrow — 
“Do not distJirb yourself on my account,” he said. “If I am con- 
demned not to love my wdfe, at least, I shall feel sincere friendship 
for her, and friendship will make up for the want of love. I feel it 
better than you would believe.” 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

PIaydn had never cause to regret that journey, or the sufferings 
which he had combated. For he received better lessons in Italian, 
and gained more correct ideas of music, than ever he had conceived 
before. During the long halts which they made in the shades of the 
Boehmei wald, our young artists revealed one to the other all they 


330 


C O N S U E L O. 


possessed of intelligence and genius. Although Joseph Haydn had 
a fine voice, and could hold his own as a chorus singer, and although 
he played well on the violin and on other instruments, he readily un- 
derstood when he heard Consuelo sing, that she was infinitely superi- 
or to him as a virtuoso, and that she could have made him an able 
singer, even without the aid of Master Porpora. But Haydn’s ambi- 
tion and his faculties were not to be limited to this branch of art; 
and Consuelo, seeing that he was so little advanced in the practice, 
while on the theory of the art, he expressed opinions so elevated and 
so well understood, said to him one day, — “ 1 am not sure that I am 
doing well in giving you an attachment foi;J;he study of singing, for if 
you should take a passion for the profession, you will be, perhaps, 
sacrificing higher powers which lie dormant within you. Let me sec 
some of your compositions. In spite of my long and severe studies 
of counterpoint with so great a master as Porpora, all that 1 have 
learned barely enables me to comprehend the creations of genius, and 
I have not the time, even if I had the courage, to attempt myself to 
create works in extenso ; whereas, if you possess the creative genius, 
you ought to follow that line, and to regard song and the use of in- 
struments only as the means to an end.” 

It is true that since Haydn’s meeting with Consuelo, he had 
thought only of getting her to teach him to sing. To follow her, or to 
live with her — to find her at all points throughout his career, was for 
many days his dearest and most cherished dream. He made, there- 
fore, some difficulties about showing her his last manuscript, which 
he had finished writing on his way to Pilsen. He feared equally that 
she should find him inferior in that line, and that she should think his 
talent so distinguished as to oppose his desire to sing. But he yielded 
at last, and partly by consent — partly by violence, suffered her to 
snatch the mysterious copy from him. It was a little sonata for the 
piano, which be intended for his young pupils. Consuelo began by 
reading it with the eye, and Joseph was astonished to see that, by 
simply reading it, she mastered it as completely as if she had heard it 
executed. Then she made him play several passages of it on the 
violin, and sang herself such as were possible for the human voice. I 
know not whether from that first scintillation Consuelo divined the 
future author of the Creation, and so many other admirable produc- 
tions, but it is very certain that she foresaw a great master, and she said 
as she returtied his manuscript to him, “ Courage, Beppo, you are a 
distinguished artist, and will be a great composer, if you work hard. 
You have ideas — that is certain. With ideas and science much may 
be accomplished. Acquire science, then, and let us triumph over the 
eccentric humors of Master Porpora. He is the master you reqnii’e. 
But think no more of the boards. Your place is elsewhere, and your 
plume must be your baton of command. You are not destined to 
obey, but to govern. When one might be the soul of the work, how 
should he think of being the mere machine? Come, maestro that 
shall be, study no more quavers and cadences with your throat. 
Learn where you must place them, and not how to execute them; 
that is the business of your very humble servant and subordinate, who 
undertakes the first female that you write for a mezzo-soprano.” 

“ O, Consuelo de mi alma ! ” said Joseph, transported with joy and 
hope. “What! I write for you? I be understood and expressed by 
you ! What glory, what ambition, you suggest to me ! — but no, no ! It 
is a dream— a madness. Teach me to sing. I prefer rendering, ac- 


c o N s u L o. 331 

cording to your heart and your intelligence, the ideas of others, to 
composing for your divine lips accents unworthy of you.” 

“ Come, come,” said Consuelo, “ a truce to ceremony. Try to im- 
provise something now with the violin — now with the voice. It is thus 
that the soul manifests itself on the extremity of the lips, at the tips 
of the fingers. So shall 1 know whether you have, indeed, the divine 
afflatus, or are but a quick scholar steeped in recollections of the 
works of others.” 

Haydn obeyed her; and she was pleased to see that he was not 
scientific, and that he had youth, freshness and simplicity in his first 
ideas. She encouraged liim more and more, and, from that time 
forth, would only teach him to sing in so far, as she said, as to teach 
him how to introduce it. 

They amuse themselv-es afterwards in singing little Italian duets to- 
gether, which she taught him, and which lie learned by heart. 
“ Should we come to want money on onr journey,” said she, “ we 
shall have to depend on street singing; and, perhaps, the police may 
take it into their heads to put our musical powers to the test — if by 
chance they should take us lor vapibond cut-purses, so many of whom 
there are, vile wretches, who dishonor our profession. Let us be 
ready, at all events. My voice, using it entirely as a contralto, may 
pass for that of a young boy, before the change has taken place. You 
must also learn to play a few little songs on the violin, in which you 
can accompany me. You will soon see whether it is a bad study. 
These popular facetiae are full of energy and of original sentiment, 
and as to my old Spanish songs, they are perfect gems, diamonds un- 
polished. Master, make your account of them. Ideas will engender 
ideas.” 

These studies to Haydn were sources of perfect pleasure. It was 
from them, perchance, that he struck the vein of those pretty, fairy- 
like, childish compositions, which he threw off at a later day, for the 
puppet-shows of the little Princess Esterhazy. Consuelo gave so 
much gaiety, so much grace, animation and spirit into these lessons, 
that the good young man, carried back to the petulance and careless 
happiness of childhood, forgot his ideas of love, his privations, his un- 
easinesses. and had now no other wish than that this wandering edu- 
cation might never have an end. 

It is not our intention to write a guide-book of the travels of Con- 
suelo and Haydn ; but slenderly acquainted with the bye-paths of the 
Bdehmer-wald, we shall, perhaps, err widely in our descriptions, were 
we to follow their track by the confused recollections which alone re- 
main to us. Suffice it to say, that the first half of their journey was 
agreeable, rather than the reverse, up to the moment when an adven- 
ture befell them, which must not be passed over. 

They had followed from its source downward, the northern bank 
of the Moldau, because it appeared to them the least frequented and 
the most picturesque. They descended then during one whole day, 
the deeply embanked gorge, which extends itself, descending all the 
way, in the direction of the Danube. But when they had come so 
far as to Schenau, seeing the chain of mountains descending toward 
the plain, they regretted that they had not chosen the other bank of 
the river, and with it the other branch of the chain, which ran off, 
rising continually, towards Bavaria. These mountains offered them 
more woodland retreats, and more poetical haunts than the valleys 
of Bohemia. During their mid-day halts in the depths of the forest. 


332 


CONSUELO. 


they amused themselves with setting springs and bird-lime for the 
little birds, and on awakening from their siesta, often found their 
snares well-furnished with this small game, which they cooked with 
a fire of dead wood in the open air, and thought delicious. To the 
nightingales, however, they gave their lives, under the pretext that 
these musical birds were their brother artists. 

Our hapless couple, therefore, now wended their way wearily 
along, seeking a ford but finding none; for the river was rapid, deeply 
embanked, and swollen by the rains of the last days. At length they 
came to a sort of dock, to which was moored a small boat, with a 
boy for boat-keeper. They hesitated a little, on seeing a number of 
persons approaching the boy before them, and bargaining for a pas- 
sage. These men separated, after taking leave of one another. Three 
preferred to follow the northern bank to Moldau, while the two others 
entered the boat. This circumstance decided Consuelo — “ a meeting 
on the right, a meeting on the left,” said she to Joseph. “ We may 
as well cross over, since that was our first intention.” 

Haydn still hesitated, and insisted that the men were ill-looking, 
talked loud, and had brutal manners; when one of them, as if to 
contradict this unfavorable opinion, bade the ferryman stop, and ad- 
dressing Consuelo in German, and beckoning wnth an air of jolly good 
nature, cried — “ Come, my lad, come on ; the boat is not loaded, and 
you can go across with us if you desire it.” 

“We are much obliged to you, monsieur,” replied Haydn, “and 
will profit by your kindness.” 

“ Come, my lads,” resumed he, who had spoken before, and whom 
his companion called M. Mayer; “come, jump in.” 

Joseph had scarcely ‘taken his seat in the boat, before he observed 
that the two strangers were looking alternately at himself and Con- 
suelo, with great attention and curiosity. Nevertheless, the fiice of M. 
Mayer announced only mildness and gaiety. His voice was agreeable, 
his manners polite, and Consuelo gained confidence from his gray hairs 
and paternal expression. 

“ You are a musician, my lad, are you not? ” said he to the latter. 

“ At your service, monsieur,” replied Joseph. 

“ And you, too? ” asked M. Mayer of Joseph. “ He is your broth- 
er, I presume,” he added. 

“ No, monsieur, he is my friend,” said Joseph. “ We are not even 
of the same nation ; and he hardly speaks German at all.” 

“What country does he come from, then?” asked M. Mayer, still 
gazing at Consuelo. 

“ From Italy, monsieur,” replied Haydn. 

“Venetian, Genoese, Roman, Neapolitan, or Calabrian?” said M. 
Mayer, pronouncing each of these words with perfect ease, in its own 
peculiar dialect. 

“Oh! monsieur, I see that you can talk with every kind of Ital- 
ian,” said Consuelo, fearing to make herself remarkable by too obsti- 
nate a silence. “ I am from Venice.” 

“ Ah ! a beautiful country, that,” said M. Mayer, immediately 
adopting Consuelo’s dialect. “ Have you long left it ? ” 

“Only six months.” 

“And you are strolling the country, playing the violin, hey? ” 

“ No. It is he who accompanies,” said Consuelo, pointing to Jo- 
seph. “ I sing.” 

“And do you play no instrument — hautboy, flute, or tam- 
bourine?” 


C O N S U E L O. 


338 


** No. It were useless to me.” 

** But if you are a good musician, you could easily learn.” 

“ Oh 1 certainly, if it were necessary.” 

“ But you do not care about it, hey ? ” 

“No. I prefer to sing.” 

“And you are right. But you will have to come to that, or change 
your profession, and that before very long.” 

“ And wherefore so, monsieur.” 

“ Because your voice will very soon break, if it has not begun to do 
so already. How old are you? Fourteen, or fifteen at the utmost?” 

“ Somewhere thereabout.” 

Exactly so. Then within a year you will sing just like a little frog, 
and it is by no means certain that you will ever become a nightingale 
again. It is a sharp trial which every boy has to undergo, when he 
passes from childhood to youth. Sometimes he loses his voice alto- 
gether, when he gains his beard. Were I you, I would learn to play 
the fife; so you would always be able to gain your livelihood.” 

•* I will see about it, when the time comes.” 

“ And you, my fine fellow,” said M. Mayer, speaking to Joseph in 
German, “ do you play the violin, only? ” 

“ Pardon me, monsieur,” answered Joseph, gaining confidence, as 
he saw that Consuelo was in no wise put out by the good M. Mayer’s 
questions, — “ I play a little on several other instruments.” 

“ Such as, for instance? — ” 

“ The piano, the harp, the flute ; a little on almost anything, when 
I have a chance to learn.” * 

“ With such talents, you do very wrongly to tramp the roads as you 
are doing; it is a rough trade. I see that your companion, who is 
still younger and more delicate than you, is’ almost beaten now; for 
he halts in his gait.” 

“ Have you observed that, monsieur?” said Joseph, who had mark- 
ed it but too clearly himself, although his companion would not con- 
fess the swelling and soreness of her feet. 

“ I saw very plainly,” said M. Mayer, “ that it was with great pain 
he dragged himself down to the boat.” 

‘‘Ah! monsieur,” said Haydn, concealing his annoyance under an 
air of philosophical indifference; “what would you have? We are 
not born to live together at our ease; and when it is necessary for us 
to suffer, why, we suffer.” 

“ But when one might live more happily and more respectably by 
adopting a permanent dwelling — what say you, then ? I do not like 
to see intelligent and amiable children as you appear to be, wander- 
ing about like vagabonds. —Take the opinion of an old man who has 
children of his own, and who, in all probability, will never see you 
again, my young friends. By running after adventures in this way, 
you will only corrupt, if you do not kill yourselves. Remember what 
I say to you.” 

“ Thanks for your good counsel, monsieur,” said Consuelo, with an 
affectionate smile; “ we will, perhaps, take advantage of it.” 

“ May heaven listen to you, my little gondolier,” said M. Mayer to 
Consuelo, who had taken up an oar mechanically, and began to row 
according to a popular habit, especially current in Venice. 

The boat touched the bank at last, after having made a long slant 
down stream, in consequence of the strength of the current, which 
was both swift and swollen. M. Mayer took friendly leave of the 


334 


C O N S>U ELO. 


young artists, as he wished them good-bye, and his silent comrade 
would not allow them to pay the ferryman. After suitable adieux, 
Consuelo and Joseph entered a path which led towards the moun- 
tains, while the two strangers followed the west bank of the river, in 
the same direction. 

“ That M.'Mayer seems to me a very w^orthy man,” said Consuelo, 
turning round for the last time on the brow of the hill, before losing 
sight of him. “ I am sure that he is a good father of his family.” 

“He is inquisitive and talkative,” said Joseph; “and I am very 
glad that you are at liberty from the embarrassment of his ques- 
tions.” 

“ He loves to talk, as many men do, who have travelled much. He 
is a citizen of the world, to judge by his facility in pronouncing differ- 
ent languages. What country can he come from ? ” 

“ His accent is Saxon, though he speaks the language of Lower 
Austria well. 1 think he is from the north of Germany ; perhaps a 
Prussian.” 

“ So much the worse. I don’t like the Prussians, and their king 
Frederick, the least of all his nation, after all that I heard of him at 
the Giants’ castle.” 

“ If that is the case, you will be a favorite in Vienna, for that war- 
like and philosophic king has no partisans, either in the court or in 
the city.” 

As they conversed thus, they entered the depths of the forest, and 
followed paths which, at one time, wandered devious among the dark 
pines, and at another, coasted the slopes of the broken mountains. 
Consuelo thought these Hyrcinio-Carpathian mountains more agree- 
able than sublime; for after having crossed the Alps several times, 
she did not feel the same delight with Joseph, who had never seen 
hills so majestic as these. His impressions, therefore, amounted 
almost to enthusiasm, while his companion felt more disposed to rev- 
erie. Consuelo, moreover, was very weary this day, and made great 
efforts to conceal it, in order to avoid afflicting Joseph. 

They slept for a few hours, during the heat of the day, and after 
having dined, and practised their music, set off again toward sunset. 
But, ere long Consuelo, though she had bathed her delicate feet for a 
long time in the crystal water of the mountain springs, felt acutely 
the laceration of her feet on the pebbles, and was compelled to admit 
that she could not make good their night’s march. Unfortunately 
the country on that side was absolutely a desert. There w’as not a 
cottage, not a monastery, not even a cowherd’s hut on the declivity 
toward the Moldau. Joseph was in despair, the night was too cold 
to think of passing it in the open air; but at length, through an open- 
ing between two hills, they discovered lights at the foot of the oppo- 
site slope. This valley, into which they were descending was Bavaria, 
but the town which they saw was farther off than they had imagined ; 
and it seemed to Joseph that it continually receded, as they advanced 
toward it. To put the last stroke to their troubles, a fine cold rain 
began to fall, and in a few minutes so obscured the atmosphere that 
the lights disappeared; so that when, with much. pain and peril, they 
had reached the base of the mountain, they knew not in what direc- 
tion to proceed ; they were now, however, on a level road, and they 
continued to drag ttiemselves along it constantly descending, when 
they heard the sound of a carriage coming toward them. Joseph did 
not hesitate to hail it, in order to obtain some directions as to the 
road, and the possibility of obtaining a lodging for the night. 


C O N S U E L O, 


885 


“ Who goes there ? ” cried a powerful voice, and the click of a p stoh 
lock was heard at the same moment. “ Stand off, or 1 will blow youf 
brains out.” 

*‘We are not very formidable,” replied Joseph, in nowise discon- 
certed. “ See, we are but two boys, and all that we ask is instructions 
concerning the road.” 

“ AVhat is this? ” exclaimed another voice, which Consuelo instant- 
ly recollected as being that of the good-natured M. Mayer. “ These 
are my little acquaintances of this morning. I recognise the accent 
of the elder. Are you there too, my little gondolier? ” he added in 
Venetian, addressing himself to Consuelo. 

“ 1 am here,” she replied in the same dialect, “ We have lost our 
way, and we are asking you, my good sir, where we can find any 
place of refuge, from a palace down to a stable. Tell us, I beseech 
you, if you know.” 

“ Ah ! my poor children,” replied M. Maj^er, “ you are at least two 
miles distant from any sort of habitation. You will not find so much 
as a kennel even on these mountains. But I have pity on you. Get 
into my carriage; I can give you two seats without crowding myself. 
Come, do not make a fuss about it, but get in.” 

“ Monsieur, you are much too good,” cried Consuelo, touched by 
his hospitality; “ but you are going to the north, and we are journey- 
ing toward Austria.” 

“ No. I am going to the westward ; in an hour, at the farthest, I 
will set you down atBiberach, and to-morrow you will enter Austria. 
This will even shorten your road. Come, make up your minds, unless 
you like st^^iding there in the rain, and delaying us all.” 

“ Well— courage and confidence,” whispered Consuelo to Joseph, 
and they entered the carriage, in which they observed that there 
were three persons. Two of them sat on the front seat, one of whom 
was driving. The third, who sat on the back seat, was M. Mayer. 
Consuelo took the opposite corner, and Joseph sat between them. 
The carriage was a strong roomy wagon with six seats, and the tall 
powerful horse, under the guidance of a vigorous hand, broke into a 
trot, and made the rings on his collar jingle merrily, as he shook his 
head with impatience. 


CHAPTER LXX 

“ As I was telling you,” said M. Mayer, resuming his discourse 
where he had stopped in the morning, “ there can be no harder and 
more laborious trade, than that which you have adopted. When the 
sun shines, all Indeed looks brightly; but the sun does not shine 
always, and your fate is as variable as the atmosphere.” 

“Whose destiny is not variable and uncertain?” said Consuelo. 
“ When the skies are inclement. Providence sends us good hearts, who 
succor us on the road ; it is not, therefore, in moments such as these, 
that we should declaim against it.” 

“ You liave quick wits, my little friend,” said M. Mayer; “you come 
from that beautiful land, where ev^ry one is quick-witted. But be- 
lieve me, neither your wits nor your fine voice will prevent your dying 


336 


C O N S U E L O, 


of hunger in these dismal Austrian provinces. Were I in your place, 
I would go and seek my fortunes in some rich and civilized country, 
under the protection of a great prince.” 

“ What prince do you mean ? ” asked Consuelo, who was not a little 
surprised at this insinuation. 

“ Oh ! on my honor I do not know what prince ; there are plenty 
of them.” 

“ But is not the Queen of Hungary a great princess ? ” asked Haydn. 
“ Is not one protected in her states ? ” 

“Oh! certainly,” replied Mayer; “but you do not seem to know 
that Maria Theresa detests music> and vagabonds yet more ; and that 
you will certainly be driven out of Vienna, if you make your appear- 
ance in the streets in the guise of troubadours as you are now.” 

At that moment Consuelo again caught a glimpse, against a dark 
back-ground, far below the road, of the lights she had seen before, and 
pointed them out to Joseph, who immediately signified to M. Mayer 
his desire to leave the carriage, in order to obtain a night’s lodging 
nearer than Biberach. 

“Those!” exclaimed M. Mayer, “you take those for lights, hey ? 
They are lights, in truth; but they are lights, which will guide you 
into no better lodgings than dangerous swamps, in which many a 
traveller has been swallowed up. Have you never seen a Will-o’the- 
Wisp?” 

“ Often on the lagoons of Venice,” replied Consuelo, “ and on the 
small lakes in Bohemia.” 

“ Well, my children, those lights are neither more nor less than 
that.” 

And thereupon, M. Mayer continued for a lopg time insisting upon 
it to our young friends, that they ought to establish themselves; and 
descanting on the difficulties they would have to encounter in Vienna, 
but still without recommending any particular place to them. Joseph 
was much struck at first by his obstinacy, and was inclined to fear 
that he had discovered Consuelo’s sex; but the good faith with which 
he seemed to address her as a boy — going so far as to advise her 
rather to adopt the military life, as soon as she should be of age to do 
so, than to go tramping about the country — reassured him on this 
point; and he convinced himself at last that M. Mayer was one of 
those weak-headed men, who continue repeating all day long the first 
notion that has come into their head on awaking. Consuelo, on the 
other hand, took him for a schoolmaster or a Protestant minister, 
whose whole mind was fixed on education, morals, and proselytizing. 

At the end of an hour they arrived at Biberach, when the night 
had become so dark, that they could literally distinguish nothing. 
The carriage stopped in the court-yard of an inn, where he was in- 
stantly accosted by two men, who took him aside to speak with him. 
When they came into the kitchen, where Consuelo and Joseph were 
warming themselves and drying their clothes by the fire, Joseph 
recognised in thosr; two persons the men who had parted from V 
Mayer at the ferry of the Moldau, where he had crossed over, leaving 
them on the left bank. One of the two was one-eyed, and the other, 
although he had both his eyes, was hardly the better looking. He 
who had crossed the water with M. Mayer, and whom our travellers 
found in the carriage, soon came to join them, but the fourth man 
did not make his appearance. They all talked together in a language 
that was incomprehensible even to Consuelo, who understood so 


C O N S U E L O. 


337 

many tongues, M. Mayer appearing to exercise some sort of authority 
over them, or at least to influence all their decisions; for after a very 
animated though whispered conversation they retired, with the excep- 
tion of him whom Consuelo styled, in her conversation with Joseph, 
the silent man. He it was who never left M. Mayer. 

Joseph was just making preparations to have a frugal meal served 
for himself and Consuelo on the end of the kitcheirtable, when M. 
Mayer entered the room, and invited them to sup with him, insisted 
on it so good-humoredly, that they did not dare to refuse. He led 
them at once into the dining-room, where they found an absolute 
feast, or what appeared a feast to them who had not enjoyed anything 
like a comfortable meal, during five days spent in a long and toilsome 
journey. 

Consuelo, however, was exceeding moderate in her enjoyment of 
the good things set before them. For the good cheer which M. May- 
er made, the attention of the servants w’ho waited on him, and the 
quantity of wine wliich he drank, as did his silent comrade also, com- 
pelled her to abate not a little of the high opinion she had formed of 
the puritanical virtues of their entertainers. She was shocked at the 
eargerness he showed to make her and Joseph drink beyond what 
they desired, and at the vulgar jollity with which he prevented them 
from mixing their wine witli water. She also observed, much to her 
annoyance, that, whether from absence of mind, or from an absolute 
necessity of repairing his strength, Joseph was giving way to his 
humor, and was becoming much more animated and communicative 
than he desired. At last she became almost angry, when she found 
that he was insensible to the jogs which she gave him with her elbow 
in order to arrest the frequency of his libations, and withdrawing his 
glass at the moment, when M. Mayer was about to fill it again — “No, 
Monseiur,” she said, “ pardon us that we do not follow your example. 
It does not suit us.” 

“ You are queer musicians,” said Mayer, laughing frankly and care- 
lessly; “ musicians who do not drink. Well, you are the first of that 
kind 1 have ever met.” 

“ And you, monsieur, are not you too a musician? ” asked Joseph. 
“ I would lay a wager that yi)u are. The deuce take me, if you are 
not a chapel master in some ^axon Principality.” 

“ Perhaps I am,” replied Mayer, smiling, “ and it is on that account 
that you inspire me with sympathy, my children.” 

If monsieur is a master,” said Consuelo, “ there is too much dif- 
ference between his talents and those of poor street singers, such as 
we.” 

“ There are poor street singers, who have more talents than people 
give them credit for; and there are great masters, aye! chapel masters 
to the greatest sovereigns in the world, who began their career by be- 
ing street singers. — What if I were to tell you that 1 heard this morn- 
ing, on the left bank of the Moldau, two charming voices issuing from 
a nook of the mountain, as they sang a pretty Italian duet, accom- 
panied by very agreeable, not to say scientific, ritornellas on the 
violin! Well, that very thing happened to nie, as I was breakfasting 
with my friends on the hill side; and yet, when I saw the musicians 
who had delighted me so much, coming down the hill, 1 was much 
astonishefi to see only two poor children, the one clad like a little 
shepherd, the other, very genteel, very artless, and yet, apparently, 
very little favored by fortune. Be not, therefore, either ashamed or 
21 


CONSUELO. 


338 

surprised at the friendship which I show you, my young friends ; but 
do me the favor to drink with me to the muses, who are our common 
patronesses.” 

“ Monsieur Maestro!” exclaimed Joseph. now completely won over 
and in the highest spirits, “ I will drink to your health. Oh ! you 
are a true musician, 1 am certain of it, since you are so enthusiastic 
about the talents of of Signor Bertoni, my companion.” 

“No, you shall drink no more,” cried Consuelo, impatiently snatch- 
ing his glass away from him, “nor will I either. We have only our 
voices by which to live, Monsieur Professor, and wine spoils the voice; 
you ought, therefore, to encourage us to remain sober, instead of en- 
deavoring to debauch us.” 

“ Well, you speak reasonably,” said Mayer, as he replaced the water 
decanter, which he had set behind him, on the middle of the table. 
“ Yes; take care of your voices by all means. That is well said. You 
are more prudent than your age promises for you, friend Bertoni; and 
I am glad we have seen your conduct so far tested. You will succeed 
— I am sure of it — as much from your prudence as from your talent. 
You will succeed, and I shall be happy to contribute to your success.” 

And, thereupon, the pretended professor, taking things quite at his 
ease, and speaking with an air of extreme kindness and frankness, 
offered to take them with him to Dresden, where he ofiered to pro- 
cure them lessons from the celebrated Hasse, and the special protec- 
tion of the Queen of Poland, who was princess electoral of Saxony. 
That princess, who was the wife of Augustus III. King of Poland, 
was herself a pupil of Porpora. Between the master and the Saasone,* 
there was a rivalry for the favors of that princess, who had herself 
been their first cause of enmity. Even if Consuelo had felt disposed, 
therefore, to seek her fortunes in the north of GeiJuany, she would 
not have chosen that court wherein to make her first appearance, 
since she well knew that she shoiUd tlmre find herself in a contest 
with the school and clique which had triumphed over her master. 
She had so often heard him speak of them during his hours of wrath 
and bitterness, that, in any circumstances, she would have felt no dis- 
position to follow the counsels of Professor Mayer. 

As to Joseph, however, his position was widely different. Hav- 
ing become heated w'ith wine during supper, he fancied that he liad 
found a powerful protector, and promoter of his future fortunes. The 
thought of abandoning Consuelo had not indeed entered his head, but 
being slightly intoxicated he gave himself up to the hope of meeting 
him again at some future day. He put full confidence in his good 
will, and thanked him very warmly. In the enthusiasm of the mo- 
ment, he even took up his violin and began to play it, entirely out of 
tune — M. Mayer applauding him all the time, either because he did 
not like to offend him by observing his false notes, or, as Consuelo 
thought because, being himself a very bad musician, he did not per- 
ceive it. The error in which he continued concerning her owm sex, 
although he had heard her sing, had proved to her satisfactorily that 
he could be no practised musician, since he had suffered himself to be 
deceived, so that no village serpent-player or trumpet major could 
have been imposed upon more thoroughly. Still M. Mayer insisted 
that they should suffer him to carry them on to Dresden; and 

o This was a surname given by the Italians to John Adolphus Hasse who was a 
Baxon by birth. 


CONSUELO, 


889 

although he still refused, Joseph listened to his offers as if he was 
dazzled by them, and made such promises of going thither al the 
shortest possible notice, that Consuelo felt herself compelled to imde- 
ceive M. Mayer as to the possibility of such an arrangement. “ You 
must not think of anything of the sort at present,” said she, in a very 
firm tone, “Joseph; for you are perfectly aware that it cannot be, 
since you have yourself very different prospects.” Mayer renewed 
his attractive offers, and seemed much surprised at her refusing them, 
as did Joseph also, who seemed to recover his reason so soon as the 
Signor Bertoni took up the word. 

While this was going on, the silent traveller — who had appeared but 
for a short time during supper — came to call M. Mayer, who left the 
room in his company. Consuelo took advantage of the interruption 
to scold Joseph for the readiness with which he listened to the fine 
words of the first comer, and to inspiration of strong wine. 

“ Have I said anything which I should not have said?” asked Jo- 
seph, who was now alarmed at his own imprudence. 

“ No,” she replied ; “ but it is sufficiently imprudent in itself to have 
kept company for so long a time with strangers. The longer they 
look at me, the more chance there is of their beginning to suspect 
that I am not a boy. It is all to no purpose that I strive to blacken my 
hands with chalk, and that I keep them under the table as much as I 
can; for they must have remarked their weakness and delicacy, if 
luckily they had not both been engaged — the one with the bottle, and 
the other with the sound of his own voice. Now the most prudent 
thing for us to do, is to take ourselves hence, and go sleep in some other 
inn; for I am by no means easy with these new acquaintances, who 
seem determined to attach themselves to our steps.” 

“What?” cried Joseph, “ run ofi* disgracefully like ungrateful 
wretches, without saying adieu, or thanking this great man, this illus- 
trious professor? Who knows if it may not be the great Hasse, with 
whom we have been supping ? ” 

“Believe me, I can assure you that it is not— and if you had your 
wits about you, you would have remarked a quantity of wretched 
commonplaces which he has uttered about music. So do not masters 
talk. He is some musician from the lower ranks of the orchestra — 
jolly, a great talker, and a bit of a drunkard ; I don’t know it is so, 
but l think I can see in his face that he has never done more than 
played on brass, and he looks to me as if he were always watching the 
leader of the orchestra.” 

“A cornet, or a second clarion I ” said Joseph, bursting out laugh- 
ing. “ Well, whichever he is, he is a very pleasant companion.” 

“It is much more than you are then,” said Consuelo, angrily. 
“ Come, try to get sober, and let us say ‘farewell,’ but at all events 
let us go.” 

“ The rain is falling in torrents — listen how it beats against the 
panes.” 

“ I hope you are not going to fall asleep on the table,” said Con- 
suelo, shaking his shoulder and trying to awake him. 

At this moment M. Mayer entered. “ Well, well,” said he gaily, 
“ here is another bore. I thought I could have slept here, and gone 
on to-morrow to Chamb ; but my friends here insist that I shall go on 
with them forthwith, since they assert that I am necessary to them 
for the arrangement of some special business which they have at Pas- 
sau. I must yield to them. And on my word ! my lads, I can give 


340 


CONSUELO. 


no better advice to you,^ since I cannot have the pleasure of taking 
you on with me to Dresden, than that you would profit by the 
chance. I have still two places to offer you in my carriage, these 
gentlemen having their own. We shall be at Passau to-morrow 
morning; you will be near the Austrian frontier, and you will even be 
able to go down the Danube to Vienna in a boat at small expense and 
with no fatigue.” 

Joseph thought the proposition an admirable one to relieve Con- 
suelo’s swollen feet. The occasion seemed in fact to be a good one, 
and sailing down the Danube was a resource of which they had not 
yet thought. Consuelo therefore consented, seeing that Joseph 
would not agree to take any measures of precaution as to their lodg- 
ing that nigiit. In the darkness, huddled up in the corner of a car- 
riage, she had no cause to fear from the observation of their travel- 
ling companions, and M. Mayer said that they should arrive at Passau 
before daybreak. Joseph was enchanted at her resolution. Still Con- 
suelo felt, I know not what, of repugnance to her company, and the 
appearance of M. Mayer’s friends by no means removed her distaste. 
She asked him if they were musicians, and he replied laconically, 

“ All of them, more or less.” 

They found the horses harnessed, the drivers on their seats, and 
the waiters of the inn, well satisfied with M. Mayer’s liberality, bus- 
tling about him, with offers of service to the very last moment. In 
an interval of silence, in the midst of all this agitation, Consuelo 
heard a groan, which seemed to come from the middle of the court- 
yard. She turned round to Joseph who had not remarked anything; 
and this groan being a second time repeated, she felt a cold shudder 
run through all her limbs. Still she could not discover any person 
who had uttered these complaints, and began to attribute it to some 
dog wearied of remaining on his chain. For all that she could do, 
however, the sound had made a painful impression on her. The 
smothered complaint, uttered in the midst of deep darkness, of wind 
and rain, uttered from the centre of a group of persons, who were 
either animated or indifferent, without any possibility of her discov- 
ering whether it was a human outcry, or merely an imaginary sound, 
struck her at once with fear and sadness. She began at once to think 
of her betrothed, and, as if she believed herself capable of sharing 
those mysterious revelations with which he seemed to be endowed, 
felt alarmed at the thought of some danger menacing Albert or 
herself. 

Nevertheless, the vehicle got under way at once; a stronger horse 
than the first drew it rapidly forward. The other carriage proceeding 
at an equal pace, w’ent sometimes ahead, sometimes behind it. Joseph 
had begun to chatter anew with M. Mayer, and Consuelo, endeavoring 
to go to sleep, pretended to be asleep already, in order to have an 
excuse for holding silence. At length weariness overcame both sadness 
and disquietude, and she fell into a deep sleep. 

When she avvoke, Joseph was asleep also, and at last M. Mayer was 
silent. The rain had ceased, the heavens were clear, and the day was 
beginning to dawn. The country had an aspect which was entirely 
unknown to Consuelo. Only from time to time, she caught glimpses 
on the horizon of the summits of a mountain chain, which, as she 
thought, resembled the Boehmer-wald. 

As gradually the effect of the lethargy which follows sleep passed 
away, Consuelo remarked, not without surprise, the position of these 


C O N S U E L O. 


341 


mountains, which were on her right, when they ought to have been 
on her left. The stars had set, and the sun, which she expected to 
see rising in front of her, had not yet shown himself. She began to 
think that the hills she was looking at, must be a different chain from 
the Bdehmer-wald ; but M. Mayer was still snoring, and she did not 
dare to address the driver, who was the only person in the carriage 
now awake. 

The horse fell to a foot’s pace in mounting a very steep ascent, and 
the rumbling of the wheels was lost in the damp sand of the deep ruts. 
It was at this moment that Consuelo again heard the same stifled 
groan which she had previously remarked in the inn-yard at Biberach. 
The sound appeared to come from behind her; but as she turned 
round mechanically and saw nothing but the leathern cushion against 
which she was leaning, she fancied that she was the victim of some 
strange hallucination, and her thoughts continually falling back upon 
Albert, she persuaded herself, to her inexpressible pain, that he was 
in agony, and that she received, owing to the incomprehensible power 
of tills strange man’s passion, the mournful and heart-rending sound 
of his last sighs. This fancy so completely took possession of her 
understanding, that she felt herself on the point of fainting, and fear- 
ing that she should actually swoon away, she asked the driver, who 
had stopped half way up the hill, to allow her to ascend the rest of it 
on foot. He consented, and setting foot to the ground himself, he 
walked along beside the horse, whistling as he went. 

This man was too well dressed to be a driver by profession ; and 
Consuelo thouglit she perceived, in a sudden motion which he made, 
that he had pistols at his belt. This precaution, in a country so des- 
ert as that in which they were travelling, was entirely unnatural; 
and besides this, the form of the carriage, which Consuelo examined 
as she walked beside the wheel, clearly showed that it contained 
merchandize of some sort. It was so deep that there must have 
been in the rear of the back seat, a false box, like those in which des- 
patches or valuable freight are carried. Nevertheless it did not ap- 
pear to be very heavily loaded, since one horse drew it with ease. 
An observation which she made astonished Consuelo yet more; for 
she saw her shadow stretching out on the ground behind her, and as 
she turned round perceived that the sun was completely above the 
horizon, at a point diametrically opposite to that at which she had 
expected to see it, had the carriage really been going in the direction 
of Passau. 

“ In which direction are we going ? ” she asked the driver, approach- 
ing his side quickly. “ Surely our backs are turned towards Austria.” 

“ They are so, for about half-an-hour,” said he. “We are turning 
back on our course, because the bridge by which we have to cross the 
river is broken, and we have to make a circuit of half a mile before 
we shall find another.” 

Consuelo, a little reassured by his words, got into the carriage, ex- 
changed a few chance words with M. Mayer, who had awakened, and 
who soon fell asleep again — Joseph not having so much as stirred in 
his lethargic sleep; and they reached the summit of the slope. Con- 
suelo now saw a long, steep, winding road unfold itself befoi-e her 
eyes, and the river, of which the driver had spoken, rolling along at 
the bottom of a deep gorge; but as far as the eye could reach, thore 
was no bridge in sight, and the directi(*n kept right on to the north- 
ward. Consuelo frightened anew, and more uneasy than before, 


342 


C () N S U E L O. 


could not get to sleep again. A new ascent lay before them; and as 
the horse seemed very tired, all the travellers, except Consuelo, whose 
feet were still much swollen, got down to walk. Again the deep 
groan met her ears, but this time so clearly, and with so many repeti- 
tions, that she could no longer attribute it to any deception of her 
senses. The sound undoubtedly issued from the double seat of the 
carriage. She examined it carefully, and discovered in the corner 
in which M. Mayer sat a little leathern air-hole formed like a wicket, 
which communicated with the interior of the double bottom. She 
tried to open it but could not succeed, for it was locked, and the key 
was, probably, in the pocket of the pretended professor. 

Consuelo, who was ever eager and ardent in adventures of this 
kind, drew from her fob a strong, sharp-bladed knife, with which she 
had provided herself before setting out, perhaps from an instinct of 
modesty, and with some vague apprehension of those worse dangers 
from which suicide may preserve an energetic and high-spirited 
woman. She took advantage of a moment when all the travellers, 
even to the driver, who had no longer anything to fear from the ardor 
of his horse, were far in advance uj) the road, and enlarging, with a 
prompt and steady hand, the crack between the cushion and the 
hinges of the wicket, placed her eye to the aperture, and looked into 
the mysterious place of concealment. What were her surprise and 
terror, when she distinguished, in that dark and narrow recess, whi^i 
received air and light only by a crevice made in the top, a man of 
athletic frame, gagged, covered with blood, with his hands and feet 
securely pinioned, and his body doubled up in a position of restraint 
and anguish which must have been almost unendurable. All that 
she could discover of his face was remarkable only for its livid pale- 
ness and its expression of convulsive suffering. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

Literally petrified with terror, Consuelo leaped to the ground, 
and having overtaken Joseph, touched his elbow secretly as a hint to 
extricate himself from the group in his company. When they were 
a few steps ahead of the others, “ We are lost,” said she, “ if we do 
not at once take flight. These people are robbers or assassins ; I have 
just seen an actual proof of it. Let us double our pace, and strike 
across the fields, for they have reasons for deceiving us, as they are 
doing.” 

Joseph fancied that some odious dream had disturbed his compan- 
ion’s imagination ; indeed he scarcely understood what she was saying 
to him, for he felt himself so languid and so much exhausted, that his 
sensations led him to suspect the wine which he had drank the prece- 
ding night to have been drugged by Mie landlord with heavy and in- 
toxicating mixtures. It is certain, indeed, that he had made no such 
trespass on his habitual sobriety as to account for his languor and 
lethargy. ‘‘ Dear signora,” he replied, “ you have the nightmare, and 
I believe I have it myself from listening to you. Even If these good 
folks were banditti, as it pleases you to consider them, what booty 
could they expect to gain by our seizure?” 


CONSTTELO. 343 

“ I know not, but I am afraid ; and if you had seen as I have, a 
half murdered man in the same carriage with ourselves ” 

At these words, Joseph burst out laughing; for this affirmation on 
Consuelo’s part convinced him that she was dreaming. 

“ What! Do you not at least see that they are leading us astray?” 
she continued with animation; “ that they are guiding us toward the 
north, while Passau and the Danube are behind us? Look at the 
sun, and see into how desert a country we are advancing, instead of 
into the neighborhood of a large city.” 

The justice of this observation at length struck Joseph, and began 
to dissipate the sort of lethargic stupor in which he was buried. 

Well,” said he, “ let us go on ; if they attempt to detain us against 
our will, we shall at least understand their intentions.” 

“And if we cannot escape them at once, Joseph, we must keep cool, 
do you understand me? We must try which are the subtler, we or 
they, and make our escape at some other time.” 

Then she drew him forward by the arm, pretending to be lamer 
than she really was, but still gaining ground on the others. They 
had not, however, made ten steps before they were called by M. 
Mayer, first in friendly tones, then harshly, and at last by the others 
with loud and energetic oaths. Joseph turned his head, and saw to 
his utter consternation a pistol levelled at him by the driver, who w’as 
running. as hard as he could in pursuit of them. 

“ They are going to kill us,” he exclaimed to Consuelo, slackening 
his pace as he spoke. 

“Are we out of shot?” said she coolly, still drawing him forward 
and beginning to run. 

“ I do not know',” said he, “ but believe me the moment has not 
come; they will fire upon us.” And he endeavored to stop her flight. 

“ Stop, or you are dead ! ” cried the driver, who ran much faster 
than they, and had them already within easy pistol-shot. 

“ It is time then to make up by self-assurance,” said Consuelo, stop- 
ping short. “ Joseph, speak and act as you see me do. Ah ! upon my 
w'ord!” she cried aloud as she turned laughing, with the ready laugh- 
ter of a good actress, “if my feet did not hurt me too much to run 
any further, I would let you see that your joke goes for nothing.” 
And then looking at Joseph, who was as pale as death, she affected to 
laugh at him with all her heart, showing his disturbed and d<^jected 
countenance to the other travellers who had overtaken them. 

“He really believed it,” she cried with perfectly well simulated gaie- 
ty. “ He really believed it. My poor comrade. Ah ! Beppo, I did 
not think your were such a poltroon. Ah I Monsieur Professor, look 
at Beppo, who really believed that monsieur was going to send a ball 
after him.” 

Consuelo affected to speak in Venetian, thus keeping the man with 
a pistol in some respect by her mirth, since he did not understand a 
word that she w'as saying. 

Turning to the driver, Mayer said, “ What a miserable joke this is — 
what is the use of frightening these poor children,” w'ith a wink of 
his eye, wdiich did not escape the notice of Consuelo. 

“ I w'anted to see if they had any courage,” said the driver, return- 
ing his pistol to his belt. 

“Alas!” said Consuelo slily, “Monsieur will have a very bad 
opinion of you now, my friend Joseph. As to me, I have not been 
afraid, so do me justice on that score, Monsieur Pistolet.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


344 

You are a brave lad,” replied M. Mayer. “ You woul(i make 9 
capital drummer, and would beat the charge at the head of your 
regiment without winking in the midst of the grape shot.” 

“ Oh ! for that I can’t say,” she replied. “ Perhaps I should be 
afraid, if I had believed that monsieur was really going to shoot us. 
But we Venetians are up to all sorts of tricks, and cannot be caught 
thus.” 

“ That is all one,” said M. Mayer. “ Still the joke was in bad taste ; 
and addressing himself to the conductor, he seemed to scold him a 
little; but Consuelo was not deceived, for she understood by the into- 
nation of their voices that an explanation was going on, the result of 
which seemed to be their conviction, that no flight w’as intended. 

Consuelo having got into the carriage again with the rest, said to 
M. Mayer, “ Admit now, that your driver with pistols is a curious 
subject. I shall call him Signor Pistola, after this. And now you 
must admit, Signor Professor, that it is not a very new game at which 
to play.” 

“ It is a German joke,” said M. Mayer. “ In Venice folks have 
more wit than that, have they not? ” 

“Oh! do you know what the Italians would have done in your 
place, to play a good trick upon us? They would have dragged the 
carriage into the first bushes by the road-side, and would have all hid 
themselves there. Then when we returned, seeing no carriage, and 
supposing that the devil had carried everything away, who would 
have been caught then? Most of all, I, who am so lame that I can 
hardly walk, and next to myself, Joseph, who is as cowardly as a 
Bdehmer-wald cow, and who would have fancied himself forsaken in 
the desert.” 

M. Mayer laughed at these childish witticisms, which he translated 
at full length to Signor Pistola, w’ho was amused as much as he was 
himself at the simplicity of the gondolier. “ Oh ! you are too wide 
aw'ake! ” returned Mayer. “ No one will trouble himself to play you 
any more tricks,” and Consuelo, who could discover the concealed 
irony of the pretended jovial good man, through his frank air of pa- 
ternal good nature, continued in playing her part of a simpleton, fan- 
cying herself clever, which is a well known fact in every melodrama. 

It is certain that their adventure had become very serious; and 
even while she was playing her part with ability, Consuelo felt that 
she was almost in a fever. Fortunately, fever is a condition in which 
we act, lethargy is that in which we give way to circumstances. 
Thereafter, she continued to show herself as gay as she had previously 
been reserved, and Joseph, who seemed to have recovered his faculties, 
seconded her admirably. All the time appearing to entertain no 
doubt but that they were approaching Passau, they pretended to have 
an ear open to the propositions which M. Mayer continued to make 
to them, of proceeding to Dresden. By this means they gained his 
entire confidence, and even set him about devising some plan for in- 
forming them that he was taking them thither without their own per- 
mission. This expedient was soon found, for M. Mayer was no no- 
vice in abductions of this kind. Then passed a long dialogue between 
the three individuals, M. Mayer, Signor Pistola, and the silent man, 
in their unknown tongue, and after that, they all began to talk Ger- 
man, as if they were merely proceeding on the same" topic. “ I told 
you so,” cried M. Mayer, “ we have missed the road; a proof of which 
is, that their carriage does not overtake us. It is more than two liours 


C O N S U E L O. 


* 


345 


since we left them behind ns, and I looked all in vain from the sum- 
mit of the hill, for there was nothing in sight.” 

“ I cannot see anything of them,” said the driver, putting his head 
out of the carriage and affecting to look back, after which he sat 
down again, looking annoyed and discouraged. 

Consiielo had long before remarked from the first hill-top, that the 
other carriage, in company with which they had set forth from Ber 
berach, had not made its appearance. 

*‘I was sure we had lost our way,” said Joseph, “but I would not 
say so.” 

“ And why the devil would not you say so ? ” asked the driver, 
affecting to be very greatly displeased. 

“ Because it amused me,” said Joseph, who was beginning to take 
his cue from Consuelo’s innocent trickery. “ It seems so droll to lose 
his way in a carriage, I thought one only did so afoot.” 

“ Ah! well, it amuses me too; I would not care much, if we were 
on the road to Dresden.” 

“ Nor I either, my lads, if I but knew where we are,” said M. 
Mayer. “ For I must confess I was by no means well pleased at going 
to Passau with my friends, and I sbould not be sorry to find that we 
had turned far enough off the road to feel ourselves constrained to 
show them no further civility.” 

“ Upon my word. Monsieur Professor, it shall be just as you would 
have it; it is all your affair. If we are not in your w^ay, and you st'I 
wish to have us to Dresden with you, I am ready to stick to you, if it 
were to the end of the world ; and you, Bertoni, what say you to it? ” 

“ I say the same,” replied Consuelo, — “ Sail on the bark, since we 
are once in it.” 

“ You are brave lads,” said Mayer, concealing his real joy under an 
air of absence, “ but I would fain know where we are.” 

“ Wherever we are,” replied the driver, “ we have pt to stop; for 
the horse cannot go a yard farther; he has eaten nothing since yester- 
day, and has travelled all night long. We shall none of us be sorry, 
great or small, to take a little refreshment here. Here is a little wood, 
let us stop and rest. We have got some provisions left. Halt here 1 ” 

They entered the wood— the "horse was unharnessed. Joseph and 
Consuelo eagerly offered their aid. The carriage was let down so as 
to rest on the shafts, and the change rendered the position of the pris- 
oner yet more painful. Consuelo again heard him groan, as did 
Mayer also, who looked steadily at Consuelo to see if she had observed 
it; but in despite of the pity which she felt to the bottom of her heart, 
she remained impassive. Mayer now walked round the carriage, and 
Consuelo saw him unlock a small door in the exterior of the vehicle, 
look into the secret compartments, lock it up again, and put the key 
in his pocket.” 

“ Is our merchandise damaged?” asked the silent man of Mayer. 

“All is well,” replied the other, with cold indifference, and he at 
once applied himself to prepai-ing for breakfast. 

“Now,” said Consuelo quickly to Joseph, as she passed closely 
beside him, “ do as you see me do, and follow close on my steps,” 
and she bustled about, arranging the provisions on the grass, and 
uncorking the bottles. M. Mayer w'as well pleased to see these volun- 
teer servants devoting themselves to his pleasure, for Joseph affected 
to imitate his companion eagerly. For the pretended professor loved 
his ease, and applied himself to eat and drink with his companions with 


CONSUELO, 


346 

greater gluttony, and greater coarseness of manner than he had display- 
ed on the preceding evening. He held out his glass every minute or two 
to his new pages, who every minute, rose, sat down again, set forth 
once more, and ran about from place to place, watching an opportu- 
nity to run off once for all, but waiting until wine and the progress 
of digestion should render their dangerous guardians less clear-sighted. 
M. Mayer stretched himself out on the grass, and unbuttoned his vest, 
showing his broad chest well garnished with pistols, glittering in the 
sunshine. The driver went to see whether the horse was feeding 
well, and the silent man set out to seek a place in the muddy stream, 
by the banks of which they had stopped, where the horse could drink. 
This was their signal for flight. Consuelo pretended to be seeking 
with them also, and Joseph buried himself also in the underwood. 
Scarcely had they well concealed themselves among the dense foliage, 
before they began to run like two hares through the coppices. There 
was little danger of a bullet reaching them in that close underwood ; 
and when they heard a shout recalling them, they judged themselves 
already far enough off to continue their flight without fear. 

“ We had better answer them,” said Consuelo. “ It will lull suspi- 
cion, and give us time to take another start of running.” 

Thereupon Joseph cried — “ This way, this way — here is water — here 
is a spring.” And, “Aspring! aspring!” cried Consuelo. And in- 
stantly, striking off at a right angle to their former course, they fled 
lightly. Consuelo thought no more of her sore and swollen feet. 
Joseph had triumphed over the narcotic which M. Mayer luvd given 
him on the preceding day. Fear lent wings to their fligiit. 

Thus they ran for about ten minutes, in a direction different from 
that which they had at first taken, not giving themselves the time to 
listen to the voices, which were calling after them, from two different 
sides, until they reached the skirts of the wood, and beyond that a 
very steep descending slope, covered with turf, having a beaten road, 
and moorlands interspersed with clumps of trees. 

“ Do not let us leave the wood,” said Joseph. “ They will soon be 
here, and they will be able to see us, in whatever direction we attempt 
to go.” 

Consuelo hesitated for a moment, surveying the country with a rapid 
glance, and said — “ The wood is too small to shelter us long. There 
is a road before us, and on it we have a hope of meeting some one.” 

“Alas!” cried Joseph, “it is the very road along which we have 
been travelling. See, it winds round the hill, and ascends to the right 
toward the spot where we have come. If any one of them mount the 
horse, he will catch us before we reach the foot of the slope.” 

“ We must try that,” said Consuelo. “One runs quickly running 
down hill. I see something on the road yonder, something coming 
this way. We have only to reach it before we are ourselves overtaken, 
and we are in safety. Come.” 

There was no time to lose in deliberation. Joseph trusted to Con- 
suelo’s instinct, and the slope was descended in an instant— so quickly 
did they run. They had reached the cover of the first clump of trees 
when they heard the voices of their pursuers on the outside of the 
skirts of the wood. This time, they took good care to return no 
answer, but ran onward under the shelter of the bushes and trees, 
until they came to a runlet in very deep banks, which these same 
trees had concealed from them. A long plank bridged it, across 
which they ran, and then cast the plank back into the water. 


CONSUELO. 


847 

Having reached the farther bank, they hurried down it, still shelter- 
ed from view by the thick vegetation, and not having any farther 
calls, they judged that they had either outstripped pursuit, or that 
their pursuers had discovered their intentions, and expected to take 
them by surprise. Ere long, however, the vegetation on the banks 
became thin, and ceased altogether; and they" stopped, fearful of be- 
ing discovered. Joseph advanced his head carefully from among the 
last bushes, and saw one of the brigands on the watch on the skirts 
of the wood, and the other, apparently Signor Pistola, of whose 
superior speed they had already made trial, at the foot of the hill, and 
not far distant from the rivulet. While Joseph was thus reconnoiter- 
ing the position of the enemy, Consuelo had turned to watch the line 
of the high road. At this instant she came back to .Joseph. “ It is a 
carriage which is coming,” she cried. “ We are saved. We must 
reach it before our pursuers discover that we have crossed the water. 

They ran down in a right line toward the high road, across the 
op-r^ ground. The carriage came toward them at a gallop. “ Oh ! 
Heaven ! ” exclaimed Joseph, “ if this other carriage should contain 
their accomplices! ” 

“ No,” replied Consuelo. “ It is a berlin, with six horses, two 
postilions, and two couriers. We are saved, I tell you, if you will but 
have a little courage.” 

It was, indeed, time that they should reach the road. Pistola had 
found the track of their feet in the sand by the rivulet’s brink. He 
had the speed and strength of a wild boar, and following rapidly on 
their track, found the spot where their traces were lost, and the piles 
wdiich had supported the plank. He easily divined the trick, passed 
the stream by swimming, and finding their footsteps again on the 
farther shore, pursued them still, until, on coming out of the bushes, 
he discovered them in full flight across the heather, but he discovered 
the carriage also, understood their plan, and feeling himself unable to 
oppose it, returned into the cover of the underwood, and held him- 
self there on his guard. 

At the cries of the two young persons, who were at first taken for 
beggars, the berlin did not kop. The travellers threw out some pieces 
of money, and the outriders seeing that they did not pick them up, 
hut continued to run after the carriage, came on at a gallop to deliver 
their masters from the annoyance. Consuelo, entirely out of breath, 
and losing her strength, as so often happens, at the very moment 
when success seems certain, could not utter a word, but clasped her 
hands in supplication, still following the riders; while Joseph clung 
to the carriage door at the risk of losing his hold, and being crushed 
under the wheels, crying in a panting voice — “ Help! help! ” — we are 
pursued— robbers! assassins! ” One of the two travellers, who sat in 
the berlin, caught some of his broken words, and made a sign to one 
of the couriers to stop the postilions. And then Consuelo, who had 
seized the bridle of one of the horses, to which she had clung in 
spite of the animal’s curvetting, and the menace of the rider’s whip, 
came up and Joined Joseph, wdien her countenance, flushed and ani- 
mated with running, struck both the travellers, who had already en- 
tered into conversation. “What is all this?” said one of them. 
“ This is a new way of asking charity. We have already given you 
aims— what would you have more? Cannot you answer? ” 

Consuelo seemed ready to expire on the spot. Joseph, who was 
quite out of breath, could only cry — “Save us, save us!” and pointed 
to the woods and the hillside, still unable to enunciate a word. 


CONSUELO. 


348 

“ They look like foxes hard pressed in the chase,” said the other of 
the two. “ Let us wait till they recover their speech,” and the two 
magnificently appareled lords looked down upon the poor fugitives 
with a smile, and a collected look, which was in strange contrast with 
the agitation of the poor fugitives. 

At length Joseph recovered breath enough to articulate the -words 
— “Robbers and assassins;” and thereupon the noble travellers 
ordered the carriage doors to be opened, and going out upon the steps, 
gazed in all directions, wdth an air of surprise which grew into aston- 
ishment, w’hen they discovered nothing to justify such an alarm; for 
the brigands having concealed themselves, the country was entirely 
deserted and silent. At length Consuelo recovered breath enough to 
speak to them, though she was still obliged to pause at every phrase 
to collect herself. 

“ We are two poor travelling musicians,” said she. “ We have 
been carried off' by men whom we do not know, and who, under the 
pretext of serving us, persuaded us to go into their carriage and 
obliged us to travel with them all night. At day-break we perceived 
that they w’ere deceiving us and carrying us toward the north, instead 
of keeping the load to Vienna. We endeavored to fly, but -they 
forced us back at the muzzle of the pistol. At last they stopped in 
yon wood — we escaped and ran down to your carriage. If you for- 
sake us we are lost. They are within two or three steps of the road 
— one among the bushes, and the other in the woods.” 

“ How many of them are there? ” asked one of the outriders. 

“ My friend,” replied one of the travellers in French — he to whom 
Consuelo had addressed herself, being the nearest to the place by 
which she was standing — “ be so good as to remember that it is no 
concern of yours. How many are there? — a pretty question, truly ! 
Your business is to fight if I desire you to do so, and I command you 
not to count the number of your enemies.” 

“ Do you really mean to amuse yourself by laying about you? ” said 
the other lord in French. “ I think, baron, it takes time.” 

“ It will not last long, and it will take the stiffness out of our limbs 
— will you be of the party, count ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you desire it,” said the count, with a sort of majestic 
indolence, reaching his sword with one hand, and a pair of pistols, 
with jewelled stocks, with the other. 

“ Oh ! you act nobly, gentlemen,” cried Consuelo, whose impetuous 
spirit made her forget for a moment the humble part she was playing, 
and who pressed the count’s arm with both her hands. 

The count, surprised at such an act of familiarity from a little lad 
of her apparent rank, looked at his sleeve with a sort of contemptu- 
ous disgust, shook it, and then raised his eyes with a sort of contemp- 
tuous indolence to Consuelo’s face. She could not help smiling, as she 
remembered with what eagerness the Count Zustiniani, and other 
most illustrious Venetians had asked her in past times permission, as 
the greatest of favors, to kiss those hands, the contact of which was 
now deemed so shocking. Whether at that moment there was in her 
manner a calm and gentle pride, which belied the outward semblance 
of poverty which she wore; or that the ease with which she spoke 
German with the accent of the best society, led the count to believe 
that she might be a young gentleman in disguise; or lastly, that the 
charm of her sex made itself instinctively perceived— instead of a 
smile of contempt, the count looked at her with a benevolent expres- 


C U N S U E L O, 


349 


sion. He was still young and very handsome, and had he not been 
surpassed by the baron in youth, in regularity of features, and in the 
graces of his person, any one might have been dazzled by his person- 
al advantages. They were the two handsomest men of their day — so 
the world said of them, and probably of many others also. 

Consuelo seeing that the eyes of the young baron were fixed upon 
her with an expression of uncertainty, surprise, and doubt, turned 
aside his attention from her person by saying — 

“ Go, messieurs, or rather come — we will be your guides. These 
bandits have a wretched man concealed in a compartment of their 
carriage, as if he were in a dungeon. He is gagged, tied hand and 
foot, covered with blood, and apparently dying. Go and deliver him. 
It is a deed becoming hearts so noble as yours.” 

“ By Heaven ! the boy is very graceful ! ” cried the baron ; “ and I 
see, my dear count, that we have lost nothing by listening to him. 
Perhaps it is some brave gentleman, whom we shall deliver from the 
hands of these brigands.” 

“Do you say that they are there?” asked the count, pointing 
towards the woods. 

“ Yes,” said Joseph; “ but they are dispersed, and if your lordship 
will listen to me you will divide your attack. You will ascend the hill 
as quickly as you can, and on turning the summit you will find on the 
outer-skirt of the wood, on the opposite side, the carriage in which 
the prisoner is confined; while I will conduct these gentlemen on 
horseback directly upon them across the country. The bandits are 
but three in number, but they are well armed. Yet they will scarcely 
dare to resist, when they find themselves attacked on two sides at 
once.” 

“The advice is good,” said the baron. “ Count, remain in the car- 
riage and let your servant go with you — I will get upon his horse. 
One of these boys will accompany you to show you where to halt — I 
will take this one as my guide. Let us make haste ; for if our brig- 
ands take the alarm, as it is most like they will, they will get the start 
of us.” 

“ The carriage cannot escape us,” observed Consuelo quietly; “ for 
their horse is grazing.” 

The baron leaped on the charger, from which the count’s servant 
dismounted; on which the latter got up behind the carriage. 

“ Get in,” said the count to Consuelo, causing her to get in the first, 
without being able to explain to himself that unusual deference — 
nevertheless, he sat down on the back seat, while she took the front. 
Leaning over the carriage door, while the postilions put their horses to 
a dashing gallop, he pursued his companion with his eye, as he crossed 
the rivulet on horseback, followed by his man, who had taken Joseph 
en croppe, in order to cross the water. Consuelo was not without 
some apprehension for her young friend, seeing him thus exposed to 
a first fire; but she saw with esteem and approbation the zeal with 
which he had claimed that post of peril. She saw him ascend the 
hillock followed by the two horsemen, spurring their chargers vigor- 
ously; and the next moment they were all three lost to sight in the 
woods. Then two shots were heard, and a moment after a third. 
The berlin turned the summit of the hill, and Consuelo, unable to 
/earn what was going on, raised her soul to God; while the count, 
equally anxious for his noble comrade shouted and swore at the pos- 
tilions — “Gallop! gallop! then, -harder yet — Canailles! Gallop at 
your speed, I say!” 


350 


CONSUELO. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

Signor Pistola, to whom we can piive no other name than that 
by which Consuelo had designated him — for we have found nothing 
interesting enough in his character to induce us to make any en- 
quiries concerning him — had seen, from the place where he lay hid, 
the berlin stop at the cries of the fugitives. The other nameless per- 
son, whom with Consuelo we shall terra the silent man, had made the 
same observation from the top of the hill, and ran to tell Mayer what 
he had seen, and to concert with him the plans for their escape. Be- 
fore the baron had crossed the rivulet, Pistola had gained some dis- 
tance, and had hidden himself in the woods. He allowed the horse- 
men to pass him, and then fired two pistol shots at them deliberately 
from behind. One ball passed through the baron’s hat, the other 
slightly wmunded the servant’s horse. The baron turned his charger, 
caught sight of the man, galloped up to him, and stretched him on the 
ground by a pistol shot, where he left him, rolling among the thorns 
with fearful imprecations, to follow Joseph, who reached M, Mayer’s 
carriage nearly at the same moment with the count’s berlin. The lat- 
ter had already leaped to the ground; but Mayer and the silent man 
had already taken to flight with the horse, without taking time to at- 
tempt the concealment of the carriage. The first care of the con- 
querors was to force the lock of the compartment in which the pris- 
oner was confined. Consuelo joyfully assisted in cutting the cords 
and removing the gag of the unhappy wretch, who no sooner felt him- 
self delivered than he cast himself at the feet of his liberators, 
thanking God and them. But so soon as he saw the baron he fancied 
he had tallen from Charybdis into Scylla. “ Ah, Monsieur Baron de 
Trenck ! ” cried he, “ do not destroy me— do not give me up. Mercy ! 
mercy ! for a poor deserter, who is the father of a family. I am no 
more a Prussian than you. Monsieur Baron. Like you, I am an Aus- 
trian subject, and I implore you not to have me arrested. Oh ! have 
mercy upon me ! ” 

“ Have mercy upon him. Monsieur le Baron Trenck,” cried Consu- 
elo without having any idea to whom she was speaking, or what was 
the subject of debate. 

“ I pardon you,” replied the baron ; “ but on the condition that you 
bind yourself by the most solemn oaths, never to confess that you 
owe your life and liberty to me.” And as he spoke thus, the baron, 
drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped up his face care- 
fully, only suffering one eye to be seen beneath it. 

“ Are you wounded ? ” asked the count. 

“ No,” replied he, slouching his hat over his face; “ but if we meet 
these pretended brigands, I have no desire to be recognised by them. 
I do not stand too well, as it is, on the papers of our most gracious 
Bovereign, and this is ail that would be necessary to ruin me.” 

“I understand what you mean,” answered the count; “but be 
under no apprehensions. I take everything upon myself.” 

“ That would be quite enough to save a deserter from the cat-o’-nine 
tails or the gallows, but not to preserve me from disgrace. But it 
does not matter. No one knows what will happen next. A man 
ought to oblige his fellow at all hazards. Come, poor devil ; can you 
keep your feet? Not too well, I see. Are you wounded ? ” 


C O N S U E L O. 


351 


In several places — but I do not feel it now.” 

“ In a word, can you manage to crawl away ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes, monsie'ur aid-de-camp.” 

“ Do not call me so, fellow. Be silent, and begone: and let us, my 
dear count, do the same. I shall not be easy till 1 am out of this 
wood. I have knocked over one of his recruiters— if the king should 
learn it, I should be in a nice place, should I not? Yet, after all, I 
laugh at it,” he added, shrugging up his shoulders. 

“ Alas! ” said Consuelo, while Joseph passed his gourd of wdne to 
the deserter — “ if he is abandoned here, he will be retaken instantly. 
His feet are still swelled in consequence of his ligatures, and he can 
hardly use his hands. See how pale and exhausted he is.” 

“ We will not abandon him,” said the count, who could not keep 
his eyes off Consuelo. — “ Franz,” he added, speaking to his servant, 
“dismount from your horse; and do you,” turning to the deserter — 
“ get upon his back. I give him to you, and this also,” — throwing 
him his purse. “ Are you strong enough to make good your way to 
Austria ? ” 

“ Oh I yes, monseigneur.” 

“ Do you intend to go to Vienna? ” 

“ Yes, Monseigneur.” 

“ Do you wish to take service again ? ” 

“Yes, monseigneur, if it be not under his Majesty of Prussia.” 

“ Go then to her Majesty, the Queen Empress; she receives every 
one once a week. Tell her that the Count Hoditz makes her a pres- 
ent of a fine grenadier, perfectly disciplined in the Prussian style.” 

“ I go, monseigneur.” 

“And take care you be not so unlucky as to mention, monsieur, the 
baron’s name, or 1 will have you taken by my people, and sent back 
into Prussia.” 

“I would rather die at once. Oh! if those wretches had left me 
the use of my hands, I would have killed myself when I was re- 
taken.” 

“ Be off.” 

“ Yes, monseigneur.” 

He finished the contents of the gourd, returned it to Joseph, with- 
out knowing who it was that had rendered him so important a ser- 
vice, prostrated himself before the count and the baron, and at a ges- 
ture of impatience made by the latter, signed the cross, kissed the 
earth, and mounted his horse by the aid of the servants, for he was 
still unable to move his feet; but no sooner was he in the saddle, than 
recovering his faculties, he set spurs to his horse, and went off at a 
hard gallop on the southern road. 

“ This, at all events, will complete my ruin, should it ever be discov- 
ed that I allowed you to do this. It is all one,” he added. “ The 
idea of making a present to Maria Theresa of one of Frederick’s 
grenadiers, is delightful. The same madcap who sent bullets to the 
Hulans of the Empress, will send them next to the King of Prussia’s 
body-guard. Faithful subjects, and well -chosen soldiers on my 
honor ! ” 

“ The sovereigns w'ill be none the w’orse served. But now, then, 
what are we to Jo with these children ? ” 

“ We can say, with the grenadier,” replied Consuelo, “ if you 
abandon us we are lost.” 

“ I do not think,” replied the count, who spoke with a sort of 


V 


C O N S U E L O, 


352 

affectation of chivalry, “ that we have given you any reason, thus far, 
to doubt our sentiments of humanity. We are about to carry you so 
far, that you will need no farther protection. My servant, whom I 
have dismounted, will ride on the rumble of the carriage,” said he, 
addressing the baron, and immediately added — “ do not you prefer the 
society of these children to that of tlie footman, whom we shall be 
obliged to admit into the carriage, and whose presence will greatly 
constrain us ? ” 

“ Unquestionably,” rejdied the baron. “ Artists, however poor 
they may be, are never out of place in any society. Who knows, it 
he who has just picked up his violin among those bushes, and who is 
bringing it back with such an air of triumph, may not be a Tartini in 
disguise. “ Now, troubadour,” said he to Joseph, who had just re- 
possessed himself of his knapsack, his instrument, and his manu- 
scripts on the field of battle, “ come with us, and, at your first night’s 
lodging, you shall sing us this glorious combat, in which we have en- 
countered no one to whom to speak.” 

You may quiz me as much as you please,” said the count, when 
they were installed in the back of the cari iage — the young people occu- 
pying the front seat — while the berlin was rolling as fast as it could, on 
the road to Austria ; “ you who have robbed the gallows of its game, 
by your pistol shot.” 

“ I am very much afraid that I did not kill him dead, and that 1 
shall meet him some day or other at the door of Frederick's cabinet. 
Then I shall have much pleasure in making my exploit over to you.” 

“ I, who have not so much as seen the enemy, envy you your plot 
sincerely,” said the count. “ I had taken quite a fancy for the ad- 
venture, and I should have had much pleasure in punishing the 
scoundrels as they deserve. To come and seize deserters, and levy re- 
cruits in the territories of Bavaria, which is now the faithful ally of 
Maria Theresa, is a piece of insolence which has hitherto wanted 
even a name.” 

“ It would be a ready-made cause of war, if the kings were not tired 
of fighting, and if the times were not peaceful just now. You will 
therefore oblige me greatly, by giving no currency to this adventure, 
not only on account of my sovereign, who would owe me very little 
favor for the part I have borne in it. but also on account of the mis- 
sion with which I am charged to your empress. I should find her, I 
fancy, very ill-disposed to receive me, if I should approach her, when 
she had just heard of such an act of impertinence on the part of my 
government.” 

“ Fear nothing from me,” said the count. “ You know I am not a 
very zealous subject, because I am not an ambitious courtier.” 

“ And what ambition would you have any longer? Love and for- 
tune have both crowned your every wish; while I — ah! how different 
are our fortunes hitherto, notwithstanding the analogy which they 
present at the first aspect.” 

As he spoke the baron drew from his breast a miniature, set with 
diamonds, and began contemplating it with eyes of tenderness, utter- 
ing deep sighs, which had very nearly set Consuelo laughing; for she 
did not think so indiscreet a passion in very good taste, and could not 
help internally making merry with tliat ultra-aristocratical manner. 

“My dear baron,” said the count, lowering his voice, while Consu- 
elo did her utmost to avoid showing that she understood him, “I 
beseech you to grant the confidence with which you have honored 


CONSUELO. 


353 


me, to no other person ; and more especially, to show that portrait to 
no other. Put it back into its case, and remember that this boy un- 
derstands French as well as you or I.” 

“ By the way,” said the baron, shutting up the miniature which 
Consuelo had carefully avoided seeing, “ what the devil could our 
friends the recruiters have wanted to do with these two little boys? 
Tell us, what did they promise, to induce you to go with them ? ” 

“In truth,” said the count, “ I never thought of that; but it is 
strange enough, that they who never desire to enlist others than men 
in the prime and strength of manhood, and that too of gigantic stat- 
ure, should have desired to enrol two little boys.” 

Thereupon .Joseph related how Mayer, as he called himself, had 
pretended to be a pi-ofessor of music, and had constantly talked to 
them of Dresden, and an engagement in the Elector’s chapel. 

“ Oh ! now I see ; and I would lay a wager that I know this Mayer,” 
said the baron. “ He must be a fellow of the name of N**, formerly 
a band-master, and now a recruiter of music for the Prussian regi- 
ments. Our countrymen have such hard heads that there is no get- 
ting them to play in time or tune; and if his Majesty, who has a nicer 
ear than the late king his father, did not draw his clarions, fifes and 
trumpets from Bohemia or Hungary, he would scarce get a band at all. 
The good professor of brass-flourishes thought to make a nice present 
to his master, bringing him back not only a deserter but two intelli- 
gent-looking little musicians; and the false pretext of offering them 
Dresden and the luxuries of a court was not a bad falsehood to begin 
with. But had you once got to Dresden, my lads, willing or unwil- 
ling, you would have been incorporated in the band of some infantry 
regiment or other, only until the end of your days.” 

“ I know not what sort of fate should have awaited us,” replied 
Consuelo. “ I have heard tell of the abominations of that military 
rule; of the ill-faith and cruelty with which recruits are raised. And 
I see, by the manner in which those villains treated that unhappy 
grenadier, that what I heard was in no sort exaggerated. Oh! this 
Frederick the Great ! ” 

“ Learn young man,” i-eplied the baron, with an ironical emphasis, 
“ that his majesty is ignorant of the means, and is acquainted only 
with the results.” 

“By which he profits, caring nothing for aught else,” cried Con- 
suelo, fired by an irrepressible indignation. “ Oh 1 I know it. Mon- 
sieur Baron. I know that kings are innocent of all the crimes which 
are committed for their pleasure.” 

“ The lad has wit,” said the count, laughing; “but have a care, my 
pretty little drummer, and remember that you are speaking in the 
presence of a superior officer of the regiment to which perhaps you 
would have belonged.” 

“ Knowing how to be silent myself, Monsieur Count, I never enter- 
tain a doubt of the discretion of others.” 

“ Do you hear him, baron ? He promises you that silence, which 
you never thought of asking of him. Come, he is a charming lad.” 

“And I trust myself to'him with all my heart,” said the baron 
“ Count, you ought to enroll him yourself, and offer him as a page to 
her highness.” 

“ It is done, if he consents,” said the count laughing. “Will you 
accept this engagement, which is very much lighter than that in the 
Prussian service ? Ah I my lad, there is no question of blowing into 
22 


354 


CONSUELO. 


brass, beating to arms before daybreak, being caned, or eating bread 
made of pounded bricks, but of carrying the train and fan of an ad- 
mirably beautiful and gracious lady, of dwelling in a fairy palace, of 
being president over sports and frolics, and playing your part in con- 
certs worth fifty times those of Fredei-ick the Great. Are yo\i tempt- 
ed? At all events, do not take me for a second M, Mayer.’^ 

“ And who is this gracious and magnificent highness, who)n I shall 
be called upon to serve?” asked Consuelo with a smile.” 

“ It is the dowager Margravine of Bareith, Princess of Culmhach, 
my wife,” replied Count Hoditz. “ She is now Chatelaine of Bos- 
wald, in Moravia.” 

Consuelo had heard the Canoness Wenceslawa de Kudolstadt 
relate the genealogies, alliances, and anecdotical history of all the 
principalities and aristoci'acies, both great and small, of Germany and 
the circumjacent countries, above a hundred times; and among others 
that of the Count Hoditz Boswald — a very rich Moravian lord, ex- 
iled and abandoned by a father irritated at his conduct — an adven- 
turer widely known tiiroughout Europe; and to conclude, the high 
chamberlain, lover, and ultimately husband of the Margi avine, dow- 
ager of Bareith, whom he had secretly married, carried off to Vienna, 
and thence into Moravia, where having recently inherited from his 
father, he had been recently put in possession of a splendid fortmie. 
The canoness had often dwelt on the details of this story, which she 
regarded as especially scandalous, because the Margravine was a sov- 
ereign princess, and the count no more than a private gentleman ; and 
to declaim against all mesalliances and love marriages, was a very 
favorite subject with her. On her side, Consuelo, who w.as anxious 
to understand and to be well informed concerning the prejudices of 
the noble caste, took heed of all their legends, and forgot .none of 
them. The very first time the name of the Count Hoditz had been 
mentioned before her, she had been struck by a vague reminiscence, 
and now she had clearly before her mind’s eye, all the circumstances 
of the life, and romantic marriage of the celebrated adventurer; of tbe 
Baron Trenck, who was only tlien on the verge of Ins memorable 
misfortunes, and who could not even presage the liorrors that weie 
to befall him, she Itad never even heard tell. She listened, therefore 
to the count, as he descanted with vanity enougli on tlie circumstan- 
ces of his newly acquired wealth. Laughed at and despised for a 
long time in the small, but haughty courts of Germany, Hoditz had 
blushed for years at being considered a poor devil of an adventurer, 
enriched by bis wife. The inheritor of enormous wealth, he now 
looked upon himself as completely restored, while he displayed the 
potnp and luxury of a monarch on the estate of his Moravian county; 
and complacently produced his new titles for the respectful or curious 
consideration of the second-rate crowned heads, who were immeas- 
urably poorer than himself. Full of kind considerations and delicate 
attentions to a wife, who was much older than himself; whether that 
princess had the good principles and good taste of the king, which 
led her to wink at the occasional infidelity of her illustrious husband, 
or that she thought that, owing his nobility to her, he could never 
close his eyes upon the decline of her beauty, she took no heed of his 
fancies. 

After travelling a few leagues, they found a relay of horses ready 
for the illustrious travellers; Consuelo and Joseph now proposed to 
get down and take their leave, but their patrons objected, saying that 


C O N S U E L o. 855 

they were still liable to the attempts of the recruiters, with whom the 
country is overrun. 

“You know nothing,” said Trenck to them— and he by no means 
exaggerated — “ of this able and formidable class. On whatever spot 
of civilized Europe you set foot, if you are poor and defenceless, if 
you possess either strength or talent, you are exposed to the deceit or 
the violence of these men. They know all the frontier passes — all 
the mountain roads, all the byways, all the suspicious lodgings, all 
the villains whose aid they can depend upon in cases of necessity, 
even to the strong hand. They speak all languages, all provincial 
dialects, for they have visited all nations, and dwell after their fashions 
in all trades. They are excellent riders, runners, swimmers; they 
can throw themselves over precipices like actual banditti. They are, 
as a rule, all brave, all seasoned to fatigue, clever and impudent liars, 
vindictive, pliable, and cruel. They are the very refuse of the human 
race, by whom the military organization of the late king of Prussia, 
William the First, profited as the most useful purveyers to its power, 
and the most important auxiliaries of its discipline. They would 
catch him a deserter in the extremity of Siberia, or would seek him 
in the hottest of the enemy’s fire, for the mere pleasure of bringing 
him back to Prussia, and having him hanged in terrorem. They tore 
a priest from the altar, because he was five feet ten in height; they 
stole a physician from the princess electoral ; they drove the old Mar- 
grave of Bareith half frantic ten times over, by carrying off from him 
his whole array, twenty or thirty thousand strong, without his daring 
to demand explanations; they made a French gentleman, who was 
going to see his wife and children in the environs of Strasburgh, a 
soldier to tbe day of his death; they have taken Russians from the 
Czarina Elizabeth, Hulons from the Mareschal of Saxony, Pandours 
from Maria Theresa, magnates of Hungary, Polish lords, Italian 
singers, w'omen of all nations, compulsory wdves, like the Sabines of 
old, for the common soldiers. Everything is game that falls into their 
net. Besides their appointments, and the expenses of their journeys, 
which are paid most liberally, they receive a premium per capita fur- 
nished; nay, more, by the inch and barleycorn of height of each 
recruit ” 

“Yes,” said Consuelo, “ they furnish human flesh, at so much the 
ounce weight. Ah I your great king is but an ogre ! But rest easy. 
Monsieur Baron. Be you assured that you did a good action, when 
you restored our poor deserter to liberty. For me, I had rather un- 
dergo all the penalties that awaited him, than say one word that should 
injure you.” 

Trenck, whose fiery spirit was but slenderly tempered by pru- 
dence, and whose temper was already soured by the incomprehensi- 
ble cruelties and injustice of Frederick toward him, felt a bitter pleas- 
ure in revealing to Count Hoditz the crimes of that government, 
whose accomplice and servant he had been in days of prosperity, 
when his conscience was less easily pricked than at present. Now 
persecuted in secret, though ostensibly owing to the confidence of the 
king his honorable diplomatic mission to the court of Maria Theresa, 
he began to detest his master, and to suffer his opinions to appear too 
plainly. He related to the count the sufferings, the slavery, and the 
despair of the Prussian army, which, precious in war, was so danger- 
ous in time of peace, that it had become necessary, in order to 
keep it under any sort of restraint, to have recourse to a system of 


356 


CONSUELO, 


unexampled narbarity. He related the epidemic of suicide which 
had spread through the army, and the crimes committed by soldiers, 
otherwise honest and religious men, for the mere purpose of getti?ig 
themselves condemned to death, and of so escaping a life too horrible 
for endurance. Would you believe that the ranks which are under 
surveillance, are those most anxiously desired? For you must know 
that these ranks, under surveillance, are composed of foreign recruits, 
of men carried off from their own homes, or of young Prussians, who, 
during the earlier part of a career, which is only to end with life, are 
a prey for the most part to absolute despair. These are divided into 
ranks, and whether in peace or in war, are made to march before a line 
of men more resigned to their fate and more determined, who have 
orders to fire upon them at the slightest indication of their flying, or 
attempting to desert. If the rank charged with this execution neg- 
lect their duty, the rear rank, which is composed of men yet more 
insensible and cruel — for there are such among the old hardened sol- 
diers and the volunteers, most of whom are scoundrels — has orders 
to fire on both indiscriminately. Thus every rank in the army has, 
on the day of battle, an enemy in front and an enemy in the rear, 
nowhere equals, comrades, or brothers in arms, but everywheie vio- 
lence, dismay and death! “It is thus,” said the great Frederick, 
“that an invincible soldiery is formed.” Well! a place in these front 
ranks is envied and sought out by the young Prussian soldier; and so 
soon as he is stationed in one of these, without entertaining the 
slightest hope of escape, he disbands and throws away his arms to 
draw upon himself the fire of his comrades. This movement of 
despair has saved many, who, risking all to gain all, succeed in escap- 
ing, and often pass over to the enemy. The king is not in the slight- 
est doubt as to the detestation in which the army hold himself and his 
yoke of iron; and you are. perhaps, acquainted with the anecdote 
relating to himself and to his nephew, the Duke of Brunswick, who 
was present at one of his great reviews, and appeared never to wax 
weary of admiring the admirable combination, and superb manoeu- 
vres of his troops. “ The discipline and the working of such a mass 
of fine-looking men, appears to surprise you,” said Frederick. “ But 
there is something that surprises me much more.” “ What is that? ” 
asked the young duke. “ It is that you and I should be in safety in 
the midst of them,” answered the king. 

“ Baron, my dear baron,” replied the Count Hoditz, “ this is the 
reverse of the medal. Nothing is done miraculously among men. 
How should Frederick be the greatest captain of his day, if he were 
as gentle as a dove? Hold! — say no more; or you will compel me, 
who am his natural enemy, to take his part against you, who are his 
aid-de-camp and his favorite.” 

“ According to the mode in which he treats his favorites, when he 
is in a whimsical humor,” replied Trenck, “ it is easy to judge how 
he treats his slaves. But, as you say, let us speak of him no more; 
for when I do think, a sort of devilish desire seizes me to return into 
the woods, and strangle with my own hands his zealous purveyors of 
human flesh, whom I spared through a cowardly prudential policy.” 

The generous indignation of the baron charmed Consuelo; she 
listened eagerly to his animated pictures of Prussian military life; 
and being ignorant that some personal resentment was intermingled 
with his spirited vehemence, she looked on it as the evidence of a 
truly great soul. And in truth, there was much real greatness of soul 


CONSUELO. 


867 


in Trenck’s feelings. Proud as he was handsome, that youth was 
never meant to grovel ; and, in this respect there was a vast differ- 
ence between him and the chance companion of his journey, the 
rich and superb Count Hoditz. The latter having been during his 
whole boyhood the terror and despair of his preceptors, had been at 
last given up to himself, and although he had now passed the age of 
noisy outbreaks, he preserved in his manners and deportment some- 
thing boyish which stood in strange contrast to his herculean stature, 
and his fine features, something faded by forty years of toils and de- 
baucheries. The superficial knowledge w'hich he displayed from time 
to time, he had derived only from romances, fashionable philosophy, 
and constant attendance at the theatre. He prided himself on being 
an artist, yet wanted both the discernment and depth of an artist, in 
every respect. Notwithstanding all this, his air of nobility, his ex- 
quisite affability, his delicate and lively ideas soon acted on young 
Haydn’s imagination, who preferred him to the baron, perhaps not a 
little on account of the superior degree of attention paid to the latter 
by CoTisuelo. 

The baron on the contrary had studied in earnest, and if the glare 
of courts and the heat of youth had at times dazzled him as to the 
true weight and worth of human dignities, he had ever preserved 
within his inmost soul that independence of sentiment and equity of 
character which serious reading and noble instincts, developed by 
education, are wont to bestow. His proud character had failed to 
resist the petrifiying influences of the caresses and flattenes of power 
but it had remained unsubdued by the attempts to bend, so that at the 
least touch of injustice, it had arisen against the blow only the more 
fierce and fiery. The handsome page of Frederick had only touched 
his lip with the poisoned chalice; but love, a true, a rash, and impas- 
sioned love, had reanimated his audacity and his perseverance. 
Touched to the most feeling nerve of his heart, he had raised his 
head, and face to face, defied the tyrant who had desired to bring him 
to his knees. 

At the date of our tale, he seemed not to have passed his twentieth 
year at the farthest. A forest of dark hair which he had refused lo 
sacrifice to the childish discipline of Frederick, overshadowed his broad 
forehead. His figure was superb, his eyes sparkling, his moustache 
as black as ebony ; his hand as white as alabaster, though strong as 
that of a Greek athlete, his voice as fresh and manly as his features, 
his ideas and his hopes of love. Consuelo pondered over that myste- 
rious love, which was forever on his lips; and which, the more she 
observed him, she thought the less ridiculous, on account of the 
blending of natural vehemence, and of distrust but too well founded 
which set a perpetual warfare between himself and his fortunes. She 
even felt an inexpressible curiosity to know the mistress of that young 
man’s secret thoughts, and surprised herself sending up sincere 
prayers for the success and triumph of the lovers. She did not find 
the day so long as she had expected to in a tiresome situation, vis-a~ 
fix to two persons of a rank so different from her own. She had ac- 
quired in Venice the comprehension, and at Riesenberg, the practice, 
of politeness, of the gentle manners, and well-toned conversation, 
which are the bright side of what was called in those days, exclusively 
good company. 

While holding herself on her reserve, and only speaking wlicn 
spoken to she i'elt much at her ease, and made her reflections inter- 


CONSUELO. 


858 

nally on all that passed before her eyes. Neither the baron nor the 
count appeared to suspect her disguise. The first, paid in fact little 
or no attention, either to her or to Joseph. If he addressed a few 
words to them, he continued the conversation, turning round to the 
count; and indeed, while talking with enthusiasm, he very often 
seemed to forget him also, and to converse with his own thoughts, 
like a sold which feeds itself on its own fires. As to the count, he 
w’as by turns as grave as a crowned head, and as frivolous as a French 
marchioness. He drew his tablets from his pocket and took notes 
with all the gravity of a diplomatist; and again he hummed them 
over in tune, so that Consuelo perceived them to be little poems in 
gallant and high-flown French. Then he w'ould read them over to 
the baron, who lauded them to the skies without listening to them ; 
and again he would ask Consuelo good-naturedly, what was her 
opinion of them. “How do you like them, my little friend ? You 
understand French, don’t you? ” 

Consuelo, who was annoyed by this false condescension, which 
seemed anxious to dazzle her, could not resist her desire to point out 
two or three errors in one of his quatrains on beauty. Her mother 
had taught her to pronounce and enunciate clearly the languages 
which she sang herself with ease, and even wdth elegance. Consuelo, 
studious, and seeking for harmony in everything, according to the 
dictates of her own highly musical organization, had found in books 
the key and rule to all these divers languages. She had above all ex- 
amined into their prosody, by exercising herself in the translation of 
their lyric poetry, and adjusting foreign words to national airs, so as 
to make herself fully acquainted with rythm and accent. She had 
thus arrived at a full understanding of the rules of versification in 
several languages, and it was no difficult task to her to point out the 
errors of the Moravian Poet. Astonished at her knowledge, yet una- 
ble to bring himself to mistrust his own, Hoditz consulted the baron 
concerning the opinions of the little musician, to which he was per- 
fectly capable of giving the preference. From that moment the count 
occupied himself entirely with Consuelo, though he still did not 
appear to suspect her real age or sex. He only asked, where he had 
been educated, to understand so well the rules of Parnassus. 

“At the free school of the Venetian chapters,” 

“ It seems to me that they carry their schoolings farther there than 
they do in Germany. And where was your comrade instructed?” 

“ In the catiiedral at Vienna,” said Joseph. 

“ISIy children,” said the count, “I think that you both possess 
intelligence and aptitude in a high degree. At our first halting stage, 
I will examine you in music, and if- you come up to the promise giv- 
en by your countenances and manners, I engage you for my orches- 
tra, or my theatre of Roswald. I will actually present you to the 
princess, my wife. Aha! what say you to that? it will be a veritable 
fortune ready made for two lads like you.” 

Consuelo was taken with a great desire to laugh at the idea of the 
count undertaking to examine herself and Haydn in music. And it 
was only by dint of a great effort that she could stifle her entertain- 
ment by affecting to bow most respectfully. Joseph' perceiving the 
advantageous consequences to himself of his second proposal, thanked 
him and did not refuse. The count resumed his tablets and read to 
Consuelo half of a singularly hideous Italian operetta, full of barbar- 
isms, which he proposed to set to music himself, and to have per- 


CONSUELO. 


359 

formed on his wife’s birthday by his own actors, in his own thea- 
tre, in his own castle, or to speak more correctly, in his own royal 
residence; for considering himself a prince, by right of marriage with 
the Margravine, he spoke of himself in no otlier capacity. 

Consiielo touched Joseph from time to time with her elbow, in or- 
der to draw his attention to the blunders of the count, and utterly 
W’earied out with his absurdity, could not help wondering to herself 
whether that famous beauty, the hereditary Margravine "of Bareith, 
and princess dowager of Culmbach, must be a veiy silly sort of per- 
son, despite all her titles, her gallantries, and her years, to suffer her- 
self to be seduced by madrigals so poor as these. 

As he read and declaimed aloud, the count kept swallowing sugar 
plums to moisten his throat, and continually offered them" to the 
young travellers, who being desperately hungry, as having eaten noth- 
ing since the preceding day, took those suckshaws which were more 
suitable to provoke than to satiate the appetite, for want of anything 
better, thinking continually that it was no easy matter to determine 
whether the count’s sweetmeats or his rhymes were the least unpala- 
table viands. 

At length, when the day was closing, the forts and steeples of that 
town of Passau, which that very morning Consuelo scarcely hoped 
ever to see, began to be apparent on the horizon. That sight, after so 
many trials and dangers as they had undergone, was almost as delight- 
ful to her, as would have been at another moment that of Venice, and 
as they crossed the Danube she could not resist the temptation of giv- 
ing Joseph a push with her hand. 

- “Is he your brother?” asked the count, who had never before 
thought of enquiring. 

“ Yes, mon seigneur,” Consuelo made answer at once, in order to get 
rid of his inquisitive questions. 

“ You are not at all like each other, nevertheless,” said the count. 

“ It is not so uncommon a thing for children to be unlike their fa- 
thers,” replieil Joseph merrily. 

“ Were you brought up together? ” 

“ No, monseigneur — in a wandering life like ours, one is brought up 
as he can, and when he can.” 

“ I know not why I think so,” said the count to Consuelo, lowering 
his voice as he spoke, “ but I cannot but believe that you are well born. 
Everything in your appearance and language announces something of 
natural distinction.” 

“I know not how I was born,” she answered with a light laugh. 
“ But I suppose I was born a musician from father to son, for there is 
nothing on earth that I love but music.” 

“ Wherefore are you dressed as a Moravian peasant? ” 

“ Because my travelling clothes being worn out, I bought the first I 
could find at a fair.” 

“ Have you been in Moravia, then ?— Perhaps you have, even to 
Roswald ? ” 

“Near it, monseigneur — yes, I have,” said Consuelo mischievously 
— “ I perceived from afar off, and without daring to approach them, 
your superb demesnes, your statues, cascades, gardens, mountains — 
nay! but I know not what marvels— in truth, a very fairy palace.” 

“ You have seen all that!” said the count, astonished, and forget- 
ting that Consuelo, having heard him describing all the delights of his 
residence, during two whole hours, could have no difficulty in describ- 
ing it on his authority without risk of discovery.” 


360 


C O N S U E L O. 


“ That mnst assuredly then give you a desire to return thither.” 

“ I am dying with a wish to do so, since 1 have liad the good fortune 
to become known to you,” said Consuelo, who wanted to pay him off 
by a little mockery for the reading of his opera which he had inflicted 
on her. 

She leaped lightly out of the barque in which they crossed over, 
crying out with an exaggerated German accent— *“ O, Passau, I salute 
thee.’ 

The berlin carried them to the house of a rich lord, a friend to the 
count, who was absent for the moment, but whose house was ready 
for their occupation. They were expected, and the servants were al- 
ready busy preparing supper, which was almost immediately set on 
the table. The count, who took great pleasure in the society of his 
little musician, as he called Consuelo, would have desired to bring her 
to table, but the fear of annoying the baron prevented him ; Consuelo 
and Joseph were, however, well contented to eat in the oflBces, and 
made no difficulty about sitting down with the servants. Joseph in- 
deed had never been treated with more respect by the great nobles who 
had employed him at their feasts; and although the sense of his art 
had elevated his heart enough to enable him to perceive the outrage 
that was done him, he never forgot, and that without feeling any 
shame of it, that his mother had been the cook of the Count Harrach, 
the lord of his village. Even at a later day, when his genius was fully 
expanded, Haydn was but a little better appreciated by his protectors, 
as a man, although as an artist he was admired all over Europe. He 
was eight-and-twenty years in the service of the Prince Esterhazy, 
and when we say in the service, we do not mean in the quality of mu- 
sician only. Paer saw him with a napkin under his arm and a sword 
by his side, waiting behind his master’s chair, and performing all the 
duties of a maitre d’hotel, that is to say of first valet, according to the 
custom of the age and the country. 

Consuelo on the contrary, had never eaten with servants since her 
Journeys as a child with her mother the Ziugara. She amused her- 
self much with the fine airs which these village lackeys assumed, who 
held themselves degraded by the company of the two little strollers, 
and who not only put them at the worst end of the table, but served 
them with the worst morsels. Their good appetite, and natural fru- 
gality caused them however to think these excellent, and their good- 
humor having disariued the pride of the serving men, they were re- 
quested to make some music to amuse messieurs,"the lackeys, at their 
ilessert. Joseph at once avenged himself of their previous grudge by 
playing the violin very obligingly, and Consuelo herself, no longer feel- 
ing anything of her sufterings and agitations of the mornii^, began 
to sing, when word was brought that the count and the baron wanted 
some music for their own diversion. There was no possibility of refus- 
ing. Alter the aid which the two lords had given them, Consuelo 
woidd have considered any hesitation on her part a piece of gross in- 
gratitude, and moreover to make a pretext of fatigue or hoarseness 
would not have answered, since their voices rising from the offices to 
the parlor had doubtless long since reached the ears of the masters. 

She followed Joseph, therefore, who like herself had made up his 
mind to play his part to his best during their pilgrimage; and when 
they had entered a handsome dining-room where, by the light of twen- 
ty wax candles, the tvyo nobles sat ‘leaning their elbows on the board, 
' with their last bottle o-f Hungary wine-before them, they stooil at the 


C O N S U E L O. 


361 

door like musicians of low "rade, and began to sing the little Italian 
duets which they liad studied together in the mountains. “ Atten- 
tion! Joseph,” cried Consuelo, mischievously. “ Kemember that 
Monsieur le Comte wishes to examine us; let us try to acquit our- 
selves creditably.” 

The count was much flattered by this reflection; the baron had 
placed the portrait of his mysterious dulcinea on his reversed plate, 
and did not appear at all disposed to listen. 

Consuelo was on her guard against displaying either the full com- 
pass of her voice or the full extent of her resources. Her pretended 
sex did not admit of tones so soft and liquid, nor was her assumed 
age consistent with such an amount of talent and science. She coun- 
terfeited a boy’s voice, somewhat hoarse and deteriorated by prema- 
ture exertion. It, moreover, amused her to imitate the artless inac- 
curacies, and temerities of misapplied ornaments, which she had so 
often heard committed by children in the streets of Venice. But, al- 
though she desported herself wondrously in that species of musical 
parody, there was so much natural taste in her whimsicalities, and the 
duet was sung with so much spirit and concert, that the baron, who 
really was a musician, and of a fine artistic organization, replaced his 
miniature it» his bosom, raised his head, fidgetted in his cluiir, and 
ended by clapping his hands violently, and crying out that it was the 
truest and most feeling music he had ever heard. Count Hoditz, how- 
ever, whose head- was full of Fuchs, Rameau, and his classic authors, 
did not equally appreciate either the style of the composition or the 
method f)f rendering it. He thought in his own mind that the baron 
was a northern barbarian, and that his two protegees were sufficiently 
intelligent scholars, but that by his own lessons he should have to ele- 
vate tiieni out of the mire of ignorance. It was his mania to form his 
artists by his own teaching, and he said with a sententious shake of the 
head, “ There is something pretty good in this — but there will be very 
much to correct. Well! well! we will soon arrange all that!” He 
[)ictured to h unself that Joseph and Consuelo were already his own 
private property, and a portion of his choir. He afterwards begged 
Haydn to play on the violin — and as he had no interest in the conceal- 
ment of his talent, he played admirably well an air of his owm compo- 
sition. which was particularly well adapted to the instrument. This 
time the couiU was very well pleased. ‘‘As for you,” said he; “ your 
place is already found. You shall be my first violin — you will suit 
me then exactly. But you must practice also on the viole d'amour ; I 
prefer the viole d'amour to any instrument — I will teach you how to 
play it.” 

Is Monsieur le Baron also w'ell pleased with my comrade’s 
music?” asked Consuelo of Trenck, who had again relapsed into 
deep thought. 

So well pleased,” he answered ; “ that in case of my making any 
stay in Vienna, I will have no master but him.” 

“ I will teach you the viole d'amour," said the count; ” and I ask 
the refusal.” 

“I prefer the violin, and this teacher,” said the baron, who, absent- 
minded as he was, showed a most magnanimous sincerity; — -and with 
the words betook up the violin and played some passages of the piece 
which Joseph had just given, with much purity and correct expres- 
sion. Then returning the instrument, he said with unfeigned modes- 
ty — ” I only played it to let you see that I am fitted only to become 


. CONSUELO. 


36ii 

your scholar; but that with attention and obedience I am capable of 
learning.” 

Consuelo asked him to play something more, and l»e did so at once, 
witliout any affectation. He had taletit, taste, and intelligence, and 
Hoditz praised the composition of his piece extravagantly. 

“ It is not very good,” said Trenck carelessly; for it is my own. 
But I like it, because it pleased my princess.” 

The count made a hideous grimace, as if to warn Trenck of his in- 
advertency; but he took not the slightest notice, bu-t buried in his 
own thoughts, drew the bow backward and forward over the strings 
for a few moments, and then rising, laid the violin on the table and, 
drawing his hand across his brow, strode to and fro for a minute or 
two, then corning up to the count, he said to him: 

“ I am compelled to wish you good night, my dear count; for being 
compelled to set out at daybreak, I ordered my carriage to be ready to 
take me up here at three in the morning. Since you propose to stay 
here all the morning, in all probability we shall not meet again till we 
reach Vienna. I shall be truly glad to see you again then, and to 
thank you for the agreeable termination of the journey, which I have 
made in your company. Truly and from my heart, i am devoted to 
you through life.” 

They pressed each the other’s hand several times ; but before he left 
the room the baron drew near to Joseph, and handed him some gold 
pieces, saying: ” This is on account of the lessons which I shall ask 
you to give me at Vienna. — You will find me at the Prussian ambas- 
sador’s.” Then he gave Consuelo a little nod of the head, saying: 
“ As for you, if 1 ever find you as drummer or trumpeter in my regi- 
ment, we will desert together — do you understand me?” and there- 
upon he left the apartment, after having bowed once again to Count 
Hoditz. 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

So soon as the Count Hoditz found himself alone with his musi- 
cians, he felt himself more at his ease, and became very communi- 
cative. Nothing gave him more pleasure than to play the part of 
chapel master, or director of an opera; and he wanted Consuelo to 
begin her musical education without further delay. ” Come hither,” 
said he, “and sit down. We liave it all to ourselves now, and no one 
can listen or attend who is not half a league absent from all the rest 
of the world. — Sit down you, also,” said he to Joseph — “ and take ad- 
vantage of the lesson. You do not know how to make the smallest 
said he again, addressing the great cantatrice. “Listen, this is 
the way it is done ” — and he sang a very common-place passage, in- 
troducing two or three of those ornaments into it, in the vulgarest 
style imaginable. Consuelo amused herself by repeating the phrase, 
substituting a descending for an ascending trill. 

“ It is not sol ” cried the count in a stentorian voice, slapping his 
hand upon the table. “ You did not listen to me.” 

He began again ; and again Consuelo sang the ornaments false, in 
a manner much more desperately than she had done the first time, 
keeping her gravity, and affecting to make the greatest efforts of at- 


CONSUELO. 


863 


tention and exertion. Joseph was choking with suppressed laughter, 
and pretended to be seized with a tit of coughing, in order to con- 
ceal it. 

“La-la-la — trala — trala!” sang the count, mocking his inexpert 
scholar, and fidgetting on his chair with all the symptoms of a violent 
indignation, which he really did not feel in the slightest degree, but 
which he thought it necessary to assume for the support of the power, 
and magisterial dignity of his manner. 

Consuelo made fun of him for a good quarter of an hour, and then, 
when she was fairly tired, sang the trill with all the clearness and 
power of which she was capable. 

“ Bravo! bravissimo!” cried the count, leaning back in his chair — 
“ At last, that is perfect. I was sure 1 could teach it to you. Let any 
one bring me the first peasant 1 can find, and 1 am sure of forming 
him, and teaching him in a single day all that others would fail to do 
in a year. Once more sing that phrase, and carefully mark all the 
notes, but so lightly that you shall scarce seem to touch them. That 
is much better — that cannot be improved. We shall make something 
of you, I see” — and the count wiped his brow, although there was 
not a drop of moistiu’e on it. 

“ Now,” he resumed — “the cadence with a fall and turn of the pipe! ” 
and he set her the example with one of those every-day abilities 
which the worst singers acquire, merely from hearing superior artists, 
in whom they admire only their tours de force, and to whom they 
think themselves fully equal— because they can imitate them in these. 
Consuelo again diverted herself by putting the count into one of his 
cold-blooded fits of affected passion which he loved to display when- 
ever he mounted his hobbyi, and concluded by giving a cadence so 
perfect and so long drawn out, that he was forced to cry — 

“ Enough ! enough ! It is done ; you have got it now. I was very 
sure that I should give you the key to it. Now, then, let us pass to 
the roulade. You learn with marvellous ease — I wish that I always 
had pupils as promising as you are.” 

Consuelo, who began to feel sleep and fatigue gaining upon her, 
greatly abridged the lesson of the roulade. She performed all those 
which the rich pedagogue prescribed to her, with perfect docility, in 
how bad taste they were soever; and she even allowed her fine voice 
to resound naturally — no longer fearing to betray herself, when she 
saw that the count was determined to attribute to himself alone, and 
his instructions, all the sudden brilliance and celestial purity which 
her voice displayed more and more, at each succeeding minute. 

“ How his voice clears up, as I show him how he ought to open his 
mouth and throw out his voice!” said he to Joseph, as he turned 
round with an air of triumph. “ Distinctness in teaching, persever- 
ance, and example, these are the three things by which singers and 
orators are made in a very short time. We will take another lesson 
to-morrow, for wm have ten lessons to take, at the end of which you 
will know how to sing. We have the appogiatura, the flatte, the sus- 
tained part of the voice, and the perfect part of the voice, the fall, the 
tender inflexion, the gay marked quaver, and the cadence in diesis, 
&c., &c. Now go to bed — I have ordered rooms to be prepared for 
you in this palace. I remain here on business until noon to-morrow; 
you will breakfast and follow me to Vienna. . Consider yourselves 
from this moment as being in my service; and as a beginning, go, 
Joseph, and tell my valet-de-chambre to come and light me to my 


864 


C () N S U E L O. 


room. Do you,” he continued, addressing Consuelo, “ stay here— *1 
am not quite satisfied with your last roulade; pray repeat it.” 

But scarcely had Joseph left the room, before the count caught both 
Consuelo’s hands with very expressive glances, and tried to draw her 
toward him Interrupted in her roulade, Consuelo gazed at him in 
great amazement, believing that he wanted to make her beat time; 
but she jerked her hands away from him very abruptly, aud retreated 
to the end of the table, as soon as she saw his sparkling eyes and 
meaning smile. 

What, are you going to play the prude? ” said the count, resum- 
ing his indolent and haughty air. “ Well, pretty one, you have got a 
little lover, hey? He is very ugly, poor fellow, and I hope from this 
day forth you will think no more about him. Your fortune is made 
if you do not hesitate about it, for I detest long delays. You are a 
lovely girl, full of cleverness and gentleness; you please me very much, 
and from the first moment when I set eyes on you, I saw that you 
were not made to ramble about the country with that little nigue. 
However, I wiH’take care of him too; I will have him taken to Ros- 
wald, and charge myself with his future destinies. As for you, you 
shall go to Vienna; I will provide suitable lodgings for you, and what 
is more, if you contimte prudent and modest, I will bring you out in 
the great world. As soon as you know something about music, you 
shall be the prima donna at my theatre, and you shall see your little 
chance companion, when I bring you to my residence. Do you un- 
derstand me ? ” 

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte,” replied Consuelo with perfect gravity, 
making him a very low bow, “ I understand you perfectly.” 

Joseph came back at that moment with the valet de chambre, car- 
rying a flambeau in each hand. And the count made his exit, after 
giving. Joseph a little tap on the cheek, and Consuelo a glance of 
intelligence. 

“ He is certainly a finished ass,” said Joseph to his comrade, as soon 
as they were left alone. 

“ Much more finished than you can imagine,” she replied very 
pensively. 

“ All one for that. He is the best man in the world, and will be of 
great use to me in Vienna.” 

“ Aye I at Vienna, of as much use as you w'ill, Beppo ; but at Passau, 
he will not be of the least use to us in the world. 1 can tell you that, 
Joseph. Where is our baggage?” 

“ In the kit^chen. I am going to fetch them up-stairs to our rooms, 
which are charming, as they tell me. You will get a good night’s rest 
at last.” 

“Good, Joseph,” said Consuelo shrugging up her shoulders. 
“Come,” she resumed. “ go as quick as you can, make up your pack- 
age, and give up your pretty room and the good bed, in which you 
have been looking forward to so sweet asleep. We leave this house 
this moment; do you hear me? Make haste, or they will have shut 
the gates.” 

Haydn thought he was dreaming. “ Ah ! indeed, very likely,” said 
he. “ I suppose these great lords are recruiters also— hey? ” 

•• I am much more afraid of the Hoditz, than I was of' the Mayer,” 
said Consuelo impatiently. “ Come, bestir yourself, do not hesitate, 
or 1 leave you, and set forth alone.” 

There was so much determined energy in Consuelo’s face and voice, 


C O N S U E 1,0. 


365 

that Haydn bewildered and annoyed as he was, obeyed her in haste. 
He returned in less than three minutes with the knapsack containing 
their clothes and their music; and in three minutes more, undiscov- 
ered by any one, they had left the palace, and were away to the suburb, 
at the farthest end of the town. 

They entered an inferior sort of inn, and hired two miserable little 
rooms, paying for them in advance, so that they might be able to start 
as early as they would, without delay. 

“Will you not, at least, tell me the meaning of this new alarm?” 
asked Haydn, as he wished Cousuelo good evening at her chamber 
door. 

“ Sleep in peace,” said she, “ and learn in two words that we have 
now nothing to fear. Monsieur Le Comte has discovered with his 
eagle-eye, that I am not of his sex, and has done me the honor of 
making me a proposal, excessively flattering to my self-esteem. Good 
night, my friend. We will decamp before dawn. I will kriock at your 
door to awaken you.” 

Oh the following day, the rising sun shone on our friends as they 
sailed down the rapid current of the Danube with delight as pure, and 
hearts as lively as the waves of that noble river. They had paid their 
passage to an old boatman who was taking down his barque-load of 
manufactures to Lintz. He was a fine old man, with whom they had 
no fault to find, and who did not annoy them with his conversation. 
He did not understand a syllable of Italian, and he took no other pas- 
sengers, inasmuch as his boat was already sufficiently loaded. And 
this at length gave them that security of mind, and repose of body, of 
wdiich they stood so much in need, in order to enjoy properly the 
beautiful and momentarily changing scenery which this fine navigation 
afforded to them. The weather was lovely. There was a nice clean 
little hold to the boat, into which Consuelo could descend if she de- 
sired to rest her eyes from the glare of the sunlight on the waters; but 
she was so much inured to the open air, and the broad sunshine, that 
she preferred lounging among the bales on deck, deliciously occupied 
with watching the trees and rocks on the shore, as they appeared to 
glance by them. She could play and sing at her ease with Haydn ; 
and the comical recollection of Hoditz the melo-nianiac, or maestro- 
maniac, as Joseph styled him, added much to the gaiety of their war- 
blings. Joseph took him off to admiration, and felt a sort of spiteful 
pleasure at the thought of his discomfiture. Their songs and merri- 
ment charmed and enlivened the old navigator, who was, like every 
German of the lower orders, passionately fond of music. He also sang 
them several airs, in which they discovered a certain nautical expres- 
sion, which Consuelo learned of him, as well as the words; and they 
completely won his heart by treating him to the best at the first land- 
ing place, where they lay to, in order to take in their provisions for 
the day’s journey; and that day was the pleasantest and the most 
peaceful they spent, since the beginning of their pilgrimage. 

“Capital Baron de TrenckI” said Joseph, as he changed for small 
coir»s one of the brilliant pieces of gold which that noble had given 
him. “ It is to him that I owe the ability to preserve the divine Por- 
porina from weariness, hunger, danger, and all the ills which misery 
carries in its train. And yet I did not like him at first sight, that ex- 
cellent and noble baron.” 

“ I know it,” said Consuelo, “ you preferred the count to him. I am 
happy now that he limited himself to promises, and that he did not 
corrupt our hands by his benefits.” 


360 


C 0 N S U E L O. 


“After all is said,” replied Haydn, “ we owe him nothing. Who 
was it that first determined, and first had spirit enough to fight the 
recruiters ? The baron of course. The count cared nothing .about it 
and only did so through complaisance, and because he thought it the 
fashion to do so. Who was it that ran all the risks, and received a 
bullet through his hat, and very close to his brains? The baron again. 
Who was it that wounded, and perhaps killed the infamous Pistola? 
The baron once more. Who was it that saved the deserter, to his 
own cost perhaps, and at the risk of incurring the wrath of his terri- 
ble master? Last of all, who was it that respected you without pi-e- 
tending to recognise your sex, and both understood and appreciated 
the beauty of your Italian airs, and the good taste of your manner of 
singing? ” 

“ Not to say the genius of Master Joseph Haydn ? ” added Consuelo, 
with a sly smile. “ The baron — still the baron.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Haydn, paying her back for the malice of her 
observation ; “ and it is perhaps very fortunate for a noble and well- 
beloved absentee, of whom I have heard speak, that the declaration 
of love to the divine Porporina came from the ridiculous count, instead 
of from the brave and seductive baron.” 

“Beppo!” replied Consuelo, with a wan and mournful smile, “ the 
absent are never wronged but by ungrateful and coward hearts. 
Therefore it is, that the baron, himself generous and sincere, who is 
deeply in love with his mysterious beauty, could never think of pay- 
ing court to me. I ask you yourself, could you so easily sacrifice the 
love of your betrothed, and the faith of your heart, to a fancy for the 
first comer? ” 

Beppo sighed deeply. “ A passion for you, by whomsoever nour- 
ished, could not be termed a fancy for the first comer f said he, “ and 
the baron would have been perfectly excusable for forgetting all his 
past and present loves on seeing you.” 

“ You are becoming quite gallant and flattering, Beppo. I see that 
you have profited by the society of Monsieur le Comte. But I trust 
that you may never marry a Margravine, and learn how love is re- 
garded by those who marry for money.” 

They arrived at liintz that night, and slept there, careless and fear- 
less, until the morrow. So soon as Joseph was awakened, he hurried 
to buy shoes, linen, and several little articles of masculine attire for 
himself, as well as for Consuelo, who was now enabled to make her- 
self brave and a beau, as Consuelo said in fine, to walk about the 
town and its neighborhood. The old boatman had told them that if 
he could get a freight for Moelk, he would take them on board, the 
next day, and carry them yet twenty leagues further down the Dan- 
ube. They passed that day, therefore, at Lintz, amused themselves 
with climbing the hill, examining the strong castles at the bottom and 
on the top of it, whence they could survey the majestic windings of 
the river, through the fertile plains of Austria. From that elevation 
they descried what greatly delighted them, the triumphal entry, 
namely, of Count Hoditz driving into the town. They recognised 
both the carriage and the liveries, and amused themselves by making 
low bows quite down to the ground, without the possibility of being 
seen by him. Toward evening they came down again to the shore, 
and found their boat laden with freight for Moelk; whereupon they 
joyfully made a new' bargain with their old steersman, embarked 
before daybreak, and saw the stars serenely burning far above their 


CONSUELO 


867 

Leads, while the reflection of those stars ran in long silvery wakes 
over the moving mirror of the ripples. This day was not less deiight- 
fnl than the preceding. Joseph liad but one regret, in the thought 
that they were houi-ly drawing nearer to Vienna, and that their jour- 
ney, the sufferings and the sorrows of which he had all forgotten, in 
the memory of its last delicious instants, was drawing to its end. 

At Moelk they had to part from the brave old pilot, and that not 
without regret. They did not find in any of the vessels, which were 
in readiness to convey them farther down the stream, any which 
offered the same conditions of solitude and security. Consuelo felt 
herself entirely refreshed, recruited, and proof against all future acci- 
dents. She proposed to Joseph to resume their pedestrian habits 
until something new' should occur. They had still twenty leagues to 
go, and this mode of procedure was not certainly the most rapid. 
The truth is, Consuelo, though she strove hard to persuade herself 
that she was all anxiety to resume the dress of her sex, and the pro- 
prieties of her station, was as little anxious, at the bottom of her 
heart, as was Joseph himself to see the end of their expedition. She 
! was too thoroughly an artist, to the inmost nerve of her organization, 
not to love the liberty, the adventurous risks, the deeds of courage or 
address, and the constant and varied spectacle w’hich tlie foot passen- 
ger alone enjoys in perfection ; not to love, in a word, all the roman- 
tic activity and vicissitude of a wandering and solitary existence. 


CHAPTER LXXIY. 

The first day of this, their new start, as our travellers crossed a 
little stream, by a w’ooden bridge, they saw a poor mendicant who 
held a little girl in her arms, and who was huddled up beside the 
parapet, stretching out her hand for charity to the passengers. The 
child was pale and suffering, the w'oman haggard and shivering wdth 
fever. Consuelo was deeply touched by sympathy and pity at this 
scene, w'hich strongly reminded her of herself and her mother. 
“ This is as we were once,” said she to Joseph, wdio understood her 
at half a word, and who stopped with her to examine and question 
the mendicant. 

Alas ! ” said she, “ it is but a few days, and I was very happy. I 
am a peasant, from the vicinity of Harmanitz in Bohemia. I had 
married, five years ago, a fino stout cousin of my own, who was the 
most laborious of mechanics, and the best of husbands. At the end 
of a year, my poor Karl, who had gone to cut wood in the mountains, 
suddenly disappeared, without any person being able to conjecture 
wliat had become of him. At once, I fell into the depths of poverty 
and of sorrow. I thought my husband had fallen from some preci- 
pice and been devoured by wolves. Although it was often in my 
power to marry a second time, the uncertainty of his fate, and the 
love which I still felt for him, did not permit me to entertain such a 
thought. Oh ! well was I recompensed, my children. Last year, 
some one knocked at my door one night; I opened it, and fell on my 
knees at seeing my dear husband before me. But, gracious heavens! 
in what a condition. He looked like a phantom. He was withered, 


368 


CONSUELO 


yellow, with haggard eyes, hair stiff with icicles, feet covered with 
blood — those poor feet with which he had travelled, I know not how 
many hundreds of miles over the most hideous of roads, in the most 
inclement of winters. But he was so happy at again rejoining his 
wife, and his poor little girl, that he soon recovered his health, his 
good looks, and his ability to work. He told me that he had been 
carried off by brigands who had carried him very far, almost to the 
sea coast, and had sold him to the king of Prussia for a soldier. He 
had lived three years in that cruel servitude, at the hardest of all 
trades, beaten from morning until night. At length, he succeeded in 
escaping, in deserting, my good children. Fighting, like a despei'ado, 
against his pursuers, he had killed one, and put out the eye of another, 
by throwing a stone. To conclude, he had walked, day and night, 
concealing himself in the morasses and the woods like a wild beast; 
he had traversed Saxony and Bohemia, and he had escaped — he was 
restored to me. Ah ! how happy we were during that winter, in spite 
of all the inclemency of the season, and the hardships of poverty. We 
had but one cause of anxiety, and that was the fear of seeing the birds 
who had caused all our misery reappear in our neighborhood ; w’e had 
often thought of going to Vienna, to see the Empress, tell her the tale 
of our woes, obtain her protection, military service for my husband, 
and some means of subsistence for myself and my little girl ; but I fell 
ill in consequence of the revulsion of feeling which I experienced on 
recovering my poor Karl, and w^e w’ere compelled to ]>ass the whole 
winter and the following summer in our mountains, always awaiting 
the moment when we should be able to set out, always keeping on 
our guard, and sleeping only wdth one eye closed. At length, the 
happy day arrived ; I had become strong enough to walk, but my 
little girl, wdio was still w’eak, was to journey in the arms of lier father. 
But our ill fortune awaited us on issuing from the mountains. We 
were walking quietly and slowly along the edge of an unfrequented 
road, without paying any attention to a carriage which, for the last 
quarter of an hour, had been slowly ascending the same steep. On 
a sudden the carriage stopped, and three men got out of it. ‘ Are 
you sure it is he?’ asked one. ‘Yes,’ replied the other, who was 
one-eyed. ‘ Upon him! upon him!’ — My husband turned round and 
exclaimed, ‘ Ah ! they are Prussians. That is the fellow whose eye 
1 knocked out. I recognise him.’ — ‘Fly!’ I exclaimed — ‘fly — save 
yourself! ’ He had already taken to flight, when one of the monsters 
flew upon me, struck me down, and set the muzzle of one pistol to 
my head, and another to that of my little girl. Had it not been for 
that fiendish idea, he would have escaped, for he ran much better 
than the brigands, and he had the start of them. But at the cry I 
uttered wlien 1 saw the pistol at my child’s head, Karl turned round, 
set up a loud shout to arrest the shot, and ran back as fast as he could. 
When the ruffian, whose foot was on my body, saw Karl within hear- 
ing, ‘ Surrender,’ he cried, ‘ or I kill them both. Make one step to 
escape, and all is over with them!’ — ‘I surrender — I surrender — here 
I am !’ cried my poor husband, and he ran back to them quicker thaii 
he liad fled at the first, disregarding all my prayers that he would 
leave us to die. When the tigers had him in their power, they beat 
him till lie was half dead, and covered with blood; when I advanced 
to assist him, they beat me too. When 1 saw him pinioned before 
my eyes, I sobbed, and filled the air with my groans, when they told 
me that if I did not hold silence, they would kill my child. They had 


CONSUELO. 


369 

already torn it from my arms, when Karl said, ‘ Be silent, wife ; I 
command you — think of our child.’ I obeyed; but the agony I un- 
derwent at seeing my husband beaten, bound, and gagged before my 
face, while those monsters cried ‘ Aye! weep — weep! thou wilt never 
see him again, for we lead him hence to be hanged,’ was so overpow- 
ering that I fell in the road as one dead, and lay all day senseless. 
When I opened my eyes it was night; my poor child lay on my 
bosom, writhing aiui sobbing as if its heart would break ; there was 
no longer anything on the road but my husband’s blood, and the traces 
of the carriage wheels which carried liim off. 1 stopped there yet an 
hour or two, trying to console and reanimate Maria, who was as cold 
as ice, and half dead with fear. At length, when I recovered my 
senses, I began to consider which was the best to be done. It was 
clearly not to pursue the robbers, but to go and make my deposition 
before the magistrates of Wiesenbach, which was the nearest town. 
This I did; and I afterwards determined to proceed to Vienna, and 
cast myself at tlie feet of the Empress, in order tliat she may prevent 
the King of Prussia from executing sentence of death against my 
husband. Her Majesty can reclaim my husband as her subject, in 
case the recruiters cannot be overtaken. I have therefore used the 
small alms which I obtained in the lands of the bishopric of Passau, 
in getting brought so far as tire Danube, in a cart, and thence I came 
down the river in a boat so far as Moelk, but now my resources are 
exhausted. The people to whom I relate my adventure are unwilling 
to receive it, and, in the doubt whether I am not an impostor, give 
me so little, that I must prosecute my journey on foot. Happy, if I 
arrive in five or six days, without dying of weariness; for sickness 
and despair are consuming me. Now, my dear children, give me some 
little charity, if you have the means of doing so, for 1 can rest no 
longer, but must journey onward, still onward, like the wandering 
Jew, until I shall obtain justice.” 

“ Oh ! my good woman ! — my poor woman ! ” cried Consuelo, clasp- 
ing her in her arms, and weeping tears of joy and compassion; 
“ Courage! courage! Have good hopes, and be of heart. Your hus- 
band is free. He is now galloping toward Vienna, on a good horse, 
with a well filled purse in his pocket.” 

“ What say you ! ” cried the deserter's wife, whose eyes were suf- 
fused with tears, while her lips quivered convulsively, so that she 
could hardly speak. “You know him! You have seen him! Oh! 
my God ! Great God ! God of goodness ! ” 

“ Alas! what are you doing? ” said Joseph to Consuelo, — “ suppose 
you are giving her but a false joy. Suppose the deserter, whom we 
assisted in saving, is not her husband? ” 

“ It is he, Joseph. I tell you it is he. Think of the one-eyed man 
— think of Pistola’s manner of proceeding. Remember how the de- 
serter said he was a father of a family, and an Austrian subject; but 
it is very easy to be satisfied. How does your husband look?” 

“ Red-haired, gray-eyed, large-faced, five feet eight inches high; his 
nose a little flattened — his forehead low— a superb man.” 

“ That resembles him certainly,” said Consuelo. “ And how was 
he dressed ? ” 

“ An old green cassock, worn breeches, and gray stockings.” 

“ That corresponds also; and the recruiters, did you pay any atten- 
tion to them ? ” 

“Did I not pay attention ! — Holy Virgin! Their horrible faces 
23 


CONSUELO. 


370 

will never be effaced from ray meiriory ! ” And then the poor woman 
accurately described Pistola, the silent man, and him with the one 
eye. “ There is yet one other,” said the poor woman— “ the fourth, 
who remained near the horse, and took no part in what was passing. 
He had a coarse, indifferent face, which seemed to me even moie 
cruel than that of the others; for, while I was shrieking, and they 
were beating my husband, and binding him with cords, like an assas- 
sin, the fat '‘fellow sat there humming, and mimicking the trumpet 
with his mouth: ‘ Broum— broum— hroiim— hroum ! ’ Ah! what a 
of* stool ^ 

“Well! that was Mayer,” said Consuelo to Joseph. “Can you 
doubt any longer; he has a trick of humming continually, and of 
playing the trumpet thus.” 

“ It is true,” said Joseph. “It was then Karl whom we saw deliv- 
ered. Thanks he to Heaven ! ” 

“Yes, thanks to kind Heaven, above all,” cried the poor woman, 
casting herself on her knees, “ and you, too, Maria, do you, too, kiss 
the earth with me, to thank the guardian angels and the Holy Virgin. 
Your father is found again, and we shall soon rejoin him.” 

“ Tell me, my good woman, is it a custom with Karl to kiss the 
earth when he is very happy? ” 

“ Yes, ray child; he never fails to do so. When he came hack to 
us after deserting, he would not enter the house, until he had kissed 
the door-sill.” 

“ Is that a custom of your country? ” 

“ No ; it is a custom of his own, which he has taught us, and which 
has always stood us instead.” 

“ It was he then certainly whom we saw,” resumed Consuelo, “ for 
we saw him kiss the earth to thank those wlio had delivered him. 
Df.d you not observe it, Beppo?” 

“ Perfectly. It was he. There cannot now be a doubt of it.” 

“ Come, let me clasp you to my heart.” cried Carl’s wife. “ Oh ! 
you two; you are angels of paradise, to bring me such news. But 
tell me how it fell out? ” 

Joseph told her all that had happened, and, when the woman had 
exhausted her gratitude in prayers to Heaven for the welfare of Jo- 
seph and Consuelo, whom she very naturally regarded as the first 
liberators of her husband, she asked w’hat she had better do to re- 
cover him. 

“ I think you had better go to Vienna. You will find him there, if 
you do not overtake him on the way. Should you get there the first, 
be sure that you inform the officers of the administration where you 
live, in order tliat Karl may be informed the moment he presents hini- 
self there.” 

“ Ah ! me! what officers? — what administration? I know nothing 
of their habits. I shall be lost in so large a city, poor peasant that 
I am.” 

“ Hold ! ” said Joseph. “ We have never had any business by which 
we can know how such things are to be managed; hut ask the first 
person you see to direct you to the Prussian embassy. Ask them for 
Monsieur le Baron de — ” 

“ Take care what you are about, Beppo,” said Consuelo in a whis- 
per to Joseph, in order to prevent him from compromising the baron, 
in reference to that adventure.” 

“Well Count Hoditz, then,” said Joseph. “Yes, the count. Ho 


CONSUELO. '• 


871 

will do for vanity what the other woiiUl have done from good feeling. 
Enquire for the house of the Margravine. Princess of Bareith, and 
give her husband the note which I will liand to you.’’ 

And with the woi-d, she toi-e a white leaf out of .Joseph’s blank 
book, and wrote the following words in pencil : — Coiisuelo Porporina, 
priina donna of the theatre of San Samuel at Venice, ex-signor Ber- 
toni, wandering singer at Passau, recommends to the noble heart of 
the Count Hoditz Roswald, the wdfe of Karl the deserter, whom Ids 
lordship saved from the hands of the recruiters and loaded with 
favors. La Porporina promises herself the pleasure of thanking 
Monsieur le Comte for his protection, in the presence of Madam the 
Margravine, if Monsieur the Comte will permit her the honor of sing- 
ing in the private apartments of her highness.” Consuelo signed it 
carefully and looked at Joseph, who, understanding her at a glance, 
pulled out his purse. Without farther consultation, and by a spon- 
taneous impulse, they then gave the poor woman the two pieces of 
gold which remained to them of Trenck’s present, in order that she 
might travel in a carriage, and walked with lier to the nearest village, 
at w'hich they helped her to make her bargain with a cheap carriage 
driver. Then, having procured her something to eat, and some few 
articles of clothing at the expense of the rest of their little fortune, 
they saw the happy creature, who had received life as it were at her 
hands, embarked on her journey. 

Consuelo then asked with a smile, how much was left at the bottom 
of the purse. 

Joseph took up the violin, shook it beside his ear, and replied, 
“Nothing but sound.” 

Consuelo tried her voice in the open country, executed a brilliant 
roulade, and then exclaimed — “ there is plenty of sound left.” Then 
she joyously took the hand of her companion, gave it an atfectionate 
squeeze, and said — “You are a brave lad, Beppo.” 

“ And so are you,” replied Beppo, bursting into a loud fit of laugh- 
ter after he had wiped away a tear. 


CHAPTER LXXY. 

It is not very alarming to fall short of money, when one is nearly 
at the end of a journey; but had they been much farther distant 
from it, our young artists would not have felt less gay than they now 
did on finding themselves all but safely landed. One has found him- 
self in a foreign country destitute of resources; for .Joseph was almost 
as much of a sti-anger as Consuelo at that distance from Vienna, to 
know' what marvellous security, what enterprising and inventive ge- 
nius are revealed to the artist, who has thus spent his last penny. 
Up to that very moment, it is a sort of agony — a continual dread of 
falling short— a black apprehension of sufferings, of embarrassments 
and humiliations, which vanish as soon as the chink of the last piece 
of money is heard. Then to poetic minds, a new w'orld commences 
—a holy confidence in the charity of others, full of charming illusions, 
mingled with a disposition to labor, and a willingness to be satisfied, 
which easily triumph over all obstacles. 


372 


CONSUELO. 


“ It is Sunday to-day,” said Consuelo to Joseph, “ you must play 
dances in the first village we come to. We shall not pass through two 
streets ere we shall find plenty of people who will wish to dance, and 
will gladly hire us as their minstrels. Do you know how to make a 
pipe? if you do, I shall easily learn to make some use of it, and pro- 
vided I can draw a few single sounds from it, that will suffice for an 
accompaniment to you.” 

Do I know how to make a pipe? ” cried Joseph, “ You shall soon 
see that.” 

They soon found on the river’s edge a reed very fit from which to 
make a pipe; it was skillfully pierced, and sounded admirably. The 
key note was successfully pitched, a rehearsal followed, and our 
young folk proceeded very quietly to a little hamlet at about three 
miles distant, which they entered joyously to the sound of their in- 
struments, crying at every door — “ Who will dance, who will dance'* 
Here are the instruments; the ball is about to begin.” 

They soon came to a little square planted with fine trees, to which 
they were escorted by about forty children, marching in time to the 
music, clapping their hands, and shouting. 

Ere long two or three merry couples came, and set the dust flying 
as they opened the ball; and, before the ground was fairly beaten the 
whole rustic population made a circle round this rustic ball, got up 
without premeditation and without conditions. At the conclusion 
of the first waltzes, Joseph put his violin under his arm, and Consuelo 
climbing up on her chair, addressed them* in a little speech, informing 
them that when artists were hungry, their fingers were always stiff, 
and they were themselves short-winded. Five minutes afterward, 
bread, milk, cakes and ale, were brought to them in abundance. As 
to salary, they very soon came to an understanding, a collection was 
to be made, at which each person should give what he pleased. 

When they had done eating, they mounted again on a barrel, which 
was rolled triumphantly into the middle of the circle, and the danc- 
ing recommenced ; but at the expiration of about a couple of hours, 
they were interrupted by some news which appeared to set the whole 
place in a stir, and which, passing from mouth to mouth, at last reach- 
ed the minstrels. The village shoemaker, in finishing a pair of shoes 
in a great hurry, had pricked his thumb badly with his awl. 

“ It is a serious event— a great misfortune,” said an old man who 
was leaning against the barrel on which they were standing. “ It is 
Gottlieb, the shoemaker, who is our village organist, and to-morrow is 
our patron saint’s day. Oh ! what a hofiday ! There is nothing like 
it within ten leagues round. Our mass, above all. is a wonder, and 
people come to hear it from great distances. Gottlieb is a real chapel 
master. He is the organist, he makes the children sing, he sings him- 
self; in a word, what does he not do, especially on our holiday ? And 
what will M. le Canon say? M. le Canon of St. Stephen’s, who is 
himself the officiating minister at the high mass, and who is always 
so well pleased with our music? He is passionately fond of music, is 
the good canon ; and it is a matter of great pride with us to see him 
at our altar, since we scarcely belong of right to his benefice, and it 
gives him not a little trouble to be present with ns, which he does not 
like without good reason.” 

“ Well,” said Consuelo, “ all that can be managed: my comrade and 
1 together will take charge of the organ, of the singing-school, of the 
mass, in a word ; and if Monsieur the Canon is not satisfied with us, 
we will take nothing for our trouble.” 


C O N S U E L O, 


373 

“Very fine! very fine!” said the old man. “You talk about it 
quite at your ease, young man ; but our mass is not played with a 
violin and a flute. No, indeed, it is a very different affair, and you 
are not acquainted with our partitions.” 

“ We will make ourselves acquainted with them this very evening,” 
said Joseph with an assumption of superiority, which was not with- 
out its influence on the auditors, who were grouped around him.” 

“ Let us see,” said Consuelo. “ Take us to the church, let some 
one blow' the organ, and if we do not play it to your satisfaction, you 
can always refuse your assistance.” 

“ But the partitions, which is the master-piece of Gottlieb’s ar- 
rangements?” 

“We will call upon Gottlieb, and if he do not declare him satisfied 
with us, we give up all our pretensions. Besides, a wounded finger will 
not prevent Gottlieb from marshalling his choir, and singing his own 
part.” 

The village patriarchs, who had collected around them, iiow held 
council, and resolved on trying the experiment. The ball was aban- 
doned ; the canon’s mass was a very different sort of affair from a 
dance. 

Haydn and Consuelo, after successfully trying their hands at the 
organ, and singing both solos and duets, were admitted to be very tol- 
erable musicians, in the absence of better. Some mechanics indeed 
were bold enough to say that their execution was superior to Gott- 
lieb’s; and that the fragments of Scarlatti, of Pergolese and Bach, 
which they rehearsed, were equal at least to the music of Holzbaiier, 
which Gottlieb adhered to exclusively. The curate, who had come to 
listen, went so far as to assert that the canon would greatly prefer 
this music to that wMth which he was ordinarily regaled. The sacris- 
tan, who did not agree, shook his head gloomily; and the curate, in 
order to avoid giving offence to his parishioners, consented that these 
two virtuosi^ who seemed to have been sent by Providence to their 
aid, should come to some agreement with Gottlieb to play the accom- 
paniment to the mass. 

They went in crowds to the house of the shoemaker, who showed 
them his hand so badly swollen that no one could imagine him capa- 
ble of performing his functions of organist. The impossibility was far 
more real than he could have desired. Gottlieb was endowed with a 
certain degree of musical intelligence, and played tolerably well on the 
organ; but spoiled by the praises of his townsmen, and the half-mock- 
ing approbation of the canon, over-estimated most absurdly both his 
powers of execution and direction. He would have been willing that 
the holiday should have been a total failure, and that the patron saint’s 
mass should be deprived of music, rather than that his own place 
should be filled by two wandering players. Nevertheless he was com- 
pelled to yield, and pretended to search for the partition, but he was 
so long about it, that the curate threatened to give the whole manage- 
ment into the hands of the two young artists, before he could be in- 
duced to find it. 

Consuelo and Joseph had then to prove their science by reading at 
sight the passages which passed for the most diflicult of that one of 
Holzbaiier’s six and twenty masses which was to be performed on the 
morrow. That music, lacking both originality and genius, was at best 
well written and easy to catch, especially by Consuelo, who had master- 
ed many more difficult trials. The auditors were wonder-struck ; and 


C O N S U E L O. 


374 

Gottlieb, ■who grew every moment more morose and snllen, declared 
that he had a fever, and that he should go to bed, being perfectly 
charmed that every one was satisfied. 

The voices and instruments were therefore immediately collected in 
the church, and our two little extempore chapel-masters at once di- 
rected the rehearsal. All went well. The brewer, the weaver, the 
schoolmaster, and the baker of the village, played the four violins. 
The choirs consisted of the children with their parents, good peasants 
or mechanics, cool-witted, full of attention, and eager to proceed. 
Joseph had already heard Holzbaiier’s music at Menna, where it was 
all the rage, and easily mastered it; and Consuelo, taking her part al- 
ternately in the parts, led the choir so well, that the artists surpassed 
themselves. There were two solos, however, which were to be sung 
by a nephew and a niece of Gottlieb’s, his two favorite pupils, and the 
best singers in the parish; but these two artists did not make their 
appearance, on the pretext that they were perfect in their parts, and 
needed no rehearsal. 

Joseph and Consuelo supped at the house of the curate, where an 
apartment had been prepared for them. The worthy curate was de- 
lighted, and evidently showed how much he looked forward to the 
excellence of the mass for to-morrow, and to the gratification of Mon- 
sieur le Canon. 

On the tollowing day the whole village was in a bustle long before 
daybreak. The bells rang loud and long. The roads were full of 
faithful worshippers hurrying from the surrounding country to share 
in the solemnities of the occasion. The canon’s carriage drew near 
majestically slow. The church was dressed up in all its best orna- 
ments. Consuelo was much amused by the self-importance of every 
person she saw. For indeed there was almost as much vanity and 
self-esteem here as in the side-scenes of a theatre, except that things 
passed more simply, with more of laughter, and less of indignation. 

Half-an-hour before the mass, the sacristan came up, frightened 
half out of his wits, and revealed to them a base plot which they had 
discovered, the planning of the jealous and perfidious Gottlieb. 
Having learned that the rehearsal had been excellent, and that all the 
musical force of the parish were enchanted with the new comers, he 
now pretended to be very sick, and forbade his nephew and niece 
from leaving the head of his bed ; so that they should neither have 
Gottlieb’s presence, which the people fancied indispensable to the ar- 
rangement of the whole, nor the solos, which were the finest part of 
the mass. All the performers were disconcerted, and it was with 
great pains that the important sacristan, who believed himself a great 
judge, succeeded in gathering them in the church to council. Consu- 
elo and Joseph hurried to meet them, made them go over again all 
the difficult parts, encouraged those who were the weakest, and in- 
spired all with confidence and energy. As to the solos, they soon 
agreed to undertake them in person. Consuelo, on reflection, easily 
remembered a religious piece of Porpora’s which was perfectly adapted 
to the tone and words of the solo required. She hastily wrote it out 
on her knee, and rehearsed it with Haydn, who was soon ready to 
accompany her. She then thought of a fragment of Sebastiati Bach, 
which he already knew, and which they arranged as well as they 
could for the occasion betw’een themselves. 

The bells rang for the mass while they were yet rehearsing, and 
they came to a perfect harmony in spite of the din of the great bell. 


C O N S IT E L O. 


375 


When Monsieur the Canon made his appearaiico at tlie altar, the 
choir was all in full swin.s: and was rinuiiu" through the fitrures of 
the German composer with a steadiness and unison which gave great 
promise. Consuelo felt a real pleasure in observing the good German 
proletaries, with serious faces, their correct voices, their methodical 
manner, and their powers never failing, because never pressed beyond 
a certain limit. “Those,” said she to Joseph, “are exactly the mu- 
sicians suited to music such as this. If the performers possessed the 
fire which the master lacked, all would go wrong; but they have it 
not; aiul pieces mechanically composed are the best rendered when 
mechanically rendered. Why have not we the illustrious maestro 
Hoditz-Roswald here, to drill these machines? He would worry 
himself vastly, do no good, and be the happiest man on earth.” 

The solo for the male voice disturbed these good people very 
greatly, but Joseph acquitted himself wonderfully well; but when 
Consuelo’s turn arrived, her Italian manner first astonished them, 
then scandalised them not a little, and at last filled them with enthu- 
siasm. The cantatrice took pains to sing her best, and the large and 
sublime expression of her song transported Joseph to the seventh 
heaven. 

“ I cannot believe,” said he “ that you ever sang better than you 
did to-day for this poor village mass.” 

“ At all events I never sang with more pleasure to myself. This 
audience is much more agreeable to my sympathies than that of the 
theatre. Now let me look at the pulpit and see if Monsieur the Canon 
is well pleased. Yes! he looks perfectly happy, the worthy canon, 
and by the way in which every one looks to his features to find his 
reward, assures me that the only One of whom no person thinks here, 
is He whom all ought to adore.” 

“ Except you, Consuelo ! Divine faith and love alone are capable 
of inspiring accents like yours.” 

When the two artists came out of church little Avas wanted to make 
tlie people carry them in triumph to the curate’s house, where an ex- 
cellent breakfast w'as in readiness for them. The curate presented 
them to the canon, who loaded them with praises, and expressed a 
desire to hear Porpora’s solo again, after luncheon. But Consuelo, 
who was astonished that her female voice had not been discovered, 
and who dreaded the canon’s eye, excused herself on the pretext that 
her rehearsals, and the active part she had taken in all the exercises, 
had greatly tired her. But the excuse was not accepted, and they 
were obliged to appear at the canon’s breakfast. The canon was a 
man of fifty, of a handsome and pleasing countenance, although a 
little inclined to fat. His manners were distinguished, even noble; 
nor was he slow to tell every one in confidence, that he had royal 
blood in his veins, being one of the four hundred natural children of 
Augustus II. Elector of Saxony ‘and King of Poland. 

He showed himself affable and gracious, as a man of the world and 
a high ecclesiastic should be, and Joseph remarked by his side a lay- 
man whom he treated at once with distinction and familiarity, and 
whom Haydn remembered to have seen in Vienna, though he could 
not fit his face with his name. 

“ Well, my good boys,” said the canon, “and so you refuse me a 
second hearing of that theme of Porpora’s. Here, however, is a 
friend of mine, much more a musician and a hundred times a better 
judge of music than I, who was very much struck with your perform- 


C O N S U E L O. 


376 

ance. S!nce you are tired,” he added, turning to Joseph, “I will not 
torment you any farther; but you must be so kind as to tell me your 
name, and where you have learned music.” 

Joseph knew at once that Consuelo’s solo was attributed to him, 
and as an expressive glance from her made him understand that she 
wished him to confirm the canon in his mistake, he replied shortly, 
“ My name is Joseph, and I studied at the music-school of St. Ste- 
phen’s.” 

“So did I,” said the stranger. “ I studied at the music school un- 
der Reuter, the father— you, I presume, under the son.” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” ^ . t i 

“ But you have had subsequent lessons ; you have studied m Italy, 
have you not ? ” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Was it you who played the organ ? ” 

“ Sometimes I — sometimes my companion ! ” 

“ And who sang ? ” 

“ Both of us.” 

“ Well, but that theme of Porpora’s. It is not you who sang that ? ” 
said the stranger, looking sideways at Consuelo. 

“ Bah ! it is not that child,” said the canon, also looking at Consuelo. 
“ He is too young to know how to sing so well.” 

“ Of course it is not I — it is he ” — she replied abruptly, pointing to 
Joseph. She was anxious to get rid of these questions, and looked 
impatiently toward the door. 

“ Why do you tell a falsehood, my child ? ” said the curate simply. 
“ I heard you sing yesterday, and saw you too ; and I recognised your 
companion’s organ in the solo of Bach.” 

“No, no! you must be mistaken, Monsieur Curate,” resumed the 
stranger, with a shrewd smile, “ or else the young man must be ex- 
traordinarily modest. At all events, we must give them high praises, 
the one and the other. 

Then drawing the curate aside, “You have a true ear,” he said, 
“ but you have not a penetrating eye. It does honor to the purity of 
your character. But still you must be undeceived. That little Hun- 
garian peasant is an exceedingly able Italian singing girl.” 

“ A woman disguised 1 ” cried the curate in astonishment. He 
looked attentively at Consuelo, who was engaged in replying to the 
good-humored questions of the canon, and whether it was shame, 
pleasure, or indignation, he blushed crimson from his skull-cap to his 
bands. 

“ It is as I tell you,” replied the stranger; “ I am trying to think 
who she can possibly be; I do not know her; and as to her disguise 
and the humble position in which she now is, I can only attribute 
them to some freak. It must be a love affair, Monsieur Curate, which 
is no business of ours.” 

“Ah! a love affiiir, indeed 1 very well, indeed, as you say,” cried 
the curate becoming very animated ; an abduction, a criminal intrigue 
with this young man. All this, however, is very atrocious ! and I who 
fell into the trap! I who lodged them in my curacy! Luckily, I gave 
them separate rooms, and I trust there has been no scandal in my 
house. What an adventure ; and how the free thinkers of my parish 
— and there are two or three such, I assure you — would laugh at my 
expense if they knew it.” 

“ If none of your parishioners knew that she was a woman by hex 


C O N S U E L O, 


377 


\ 


voice, it is very little probable that 1 have recognised her by her fea- 
tures or deportment. Look, however, what pretty hands she has, 
what silky hair, what a small foot, in spite of her coarse shoes.” 

“ I will not look at anything of the kind,” cried the curate, quite be- 
side himself. “ It is an abomination to dress herself as a man. 
There is a verse in the Holy Bible which condemns to death any 
man or woman guilty of assuming the dress of the opposite sex. 
To death! Do you hear, monsieur ? That show's clearly the enon- 
mity of the sin ! wdth that too, she has presumed to enter the church, 
and impudently dared to sing the praises of the Lord, her soul and 
body stained alike by the commission of such a crime.” 

“ And most divinely she did sing them ; the tears came into my eyes 
as I listened, for I never heard anything like it in my life. Strange 
mystery! Who can this woman be? All those of whom 1 can 
think are much older than she.” 

“ She is a mere child — quite a young girl,” cried the curate, who 
could not help looking at Consuelo with a feeling of interest which 
conflicted in his heart with the austerity of his principles. “ Oh ! the 
little serpent ! See with how gentle and modest an air she replies to 
the questions of M. le Canon. Ah, I am a lost man, if any one here 
should ever discover the deceit. I should have to leave the country.” 

“ What! did neither you yourself, nor any one of your parishioners, 
even suspect that her voice was a woman’s? Of a truth, you must be 
a very simple audience.” 

“What would you have? We certainly perceived something very 
extraordinary in the voice, but Gottlieb said that it was an Italian 
voice, that he had already heard several others like it, that it was a 
voice of the Sistine Chapel— I don’t know what that means, and I was 
a thousand miles from suspecting any thing. What must I do, mon- 
sieur ? What must Ido?” 

“ If no one has any suspicion, my advice to you is to say nothing at 
all about it. Get rid of the boys as quickly as you can. I will arrange 
to get rid of them for you if you wish it.” 

“Oh! yes. You will do me the greatest seiwdce; see here, I will 
give you the money — how much ought I to pay them ? ” 

“ This is not my part of the business. We pay artists liberally ; but 
your parish is not rich, and the church is not forced to do as the 
tliGcitr0 (lo0s«^^ 

“ I will do things liberally. I will give them six florins. I will go 
and get it at once. But what will Monsieur the Canon say. He does 
not seem to have perceived anything as yet. See how patenially he 
is talking with her; the holy man.” 

“ Frankly! do you believe that he would be much scandalized?” 

“ How should he fail to be so? However, it is not so much his rep- 
rimands as his raillery that I fear. You know how fond he is of a 
joke. He has so much wit— oh, how he will mock my simplicity.” 

“ But if he partakes in your error, as he seenas to do so far, he will 
have no right to quiz you. Come, do not seem to take any notice; 
let us join them, and you can take your own time to get rid of your 
musicians.” 

They quitted the embrasure of the window in which they had been 
thus conversing, and the curate gliding alongside of Joseph— who 
did not appear to engross the canon nearly so much as the Signor 
Bertoni — slipped the six flr^rins into his hand. So soon as he had re- 
ceived that moderate sun; Joseph made a sign to Consuelo to get rid 


878 


C C) N S U E L O. 


of the canon and to follow him out; but the canon called Joseph back) 
and persisting in the belief that it was he who had the female voice, 
asked him, “ Why, I pray yon, did yon choose that piece of Porpora’s 
music, instead of singing M. Holzbaiier’s?” 

“ We had not Holzbaiier’s, and did not know it,” replied Joseph. 
“ I sang the only thing which I had studied, that remained complete 
in my memory.” 

The curate then hastily- related Gottlieb’s trick, and that bit of ar- 
tistical Jealousy made the canon laugh heartily. 

“Well!” said the stranger, “your good shoemaker did us a great 
service. Instead of a very bad solo, we had a masterpiece of a very 
great maestro. You showed your taste,” he added, addressing him- 
self to Consuelo. 

“ I do not think,” said Joseph, “that Holzbaiier’s solo can be bad. 
What we sang of his was not without merit.” 

“ Merit is not genius,” replied the stranger with a sigh, and then 
pertinaciously addressing himself to Consuelo, he added, “ What do 
you think of it, my young friend? Do you think they are the 
same ? ” 

“ No, monsieur, I do not,” answered she, coldly and laconically, for 
the look of the man embarrassed and annoyed her more and more 
every moment.” 

“ But you felt pleasure in singing that mass by Holzbaiier, did you 
not? ” asked the canon. “ It is fine; do you not think so? ” 

“ I felt neither pleasure nor the reverse,” said Consuelo, who was 
so impatient that she was becoming most positively frank. 

“ That is to say, it is neither good nor bad,” said the stranger 
laughing. “ Well ! my lad, you have answered me very well, and my 
opinion agrees with yours.” 

The canon burst into a violent fit of laughter, the curate appeared 
to be very greatly embarrassed, and Consuelo following Joseph, made 
her escape without troubling her head about that musical difference. 

“ Well ! Monsieur Canon,” said the stranger, as soon as the musi- 
cians had got out of the room, “ what do you think of those lads? ” 

“ Charming! admirable! I beg your pardon for saying so, after the 
rub the younger one gave you just before leaving the room.” 

“My pardon? I think him adorable, that boy. What talents for 
such tender years. It is wonderful ! what powerful and precocious 
natural temperaments these Italians have.” 

“ I can say nothing for the talents of him you speak of,” said the 
canon quite naturally. “ I did not clearly observe it. It is his com- 
panion whom I think really wonderful, and he belongs to our nation, 
if it may so please your Italian mania.” 

“ Oh ! yes,” said the stranger, winking his eye at the curate. 
“ Then it was decidedly the elder who sang us Porpora’s music.” 

“ I presume so,” said the curate, a good deal put out at being com- 
pelled to vouch for such a falsehood. 

“ For me, I am sure of it,” said the canon, “ for he told me so him- 
self.” 

“ And your other solo,” said the stranger, “ that must then have 
been one of your parishioners who sang that ? ” 

“ I suppose so,” answered the curate," forcing himself to uphold the 
imposture. 

Both looked at the canon to see whether he was their dupe, or 
Whethe- he was laughing at them in his sleeve. But he did not seem 


C O N S U E L O. 


379 

to entertain such a thought. His tranquillity reassured the curate, 
and they began to speak of other things. But at the end of a quarter 
of an hour, the canon returned to the subject of music, and wanted 
to see Joseph and Oonsuelo, in order, as he said, to take them to his 
country seat, and hear them at his leisure. The curate lost his head, 
and stammered out incompreliensible excuses. The canon then asked 
him if he had his little musicians put into the pot to make up the 
breakfast, which he really thought was quite good enough without. 
The curate was in agony. The stranger came to the rescue. “ 1 will 
seek them out for you,” he said, making a sign to the curate that he 
would devise some expedient or other. But he had not the trouble 
to do so, for he instantly learned from the servant woman that the 
young artists had set off across the fields, after generously giving her 
one of the florins which they had received. 

‘‘ What, gone ! ” exclaimed the canon greatly dissatisfied. “ I must 
send after them. I must see them again. I must hear them— abso- 
lutely I must!” 

They affected to obey him, but they took no particular pains to 
overtake them. Beside which, they had taken their line as straight 
as the crow flies, eager to evade the curiosity which threatened them 
with embarrassment. The canon regretted the misunderstanding 
much, and was a little out of sorts at it. 

“Heaven be thanked! he thinks nothing of the truth,” said the 
curate to the stranger. 

“ Curate,” replied he, “ do you remember the story of a certain 
bishop, who, eating meat by mistake, one Friday, was informed of liis 
inadvertency by his vicar. ‘Wretch!’ cried the bishop, ‘could he 
not have held his peace, till dinner was over.’ We might just as well 
have allowed Monsieur le Canon go on deceiving himself to his heart’s 
content.” 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

The night was tranquil and serene; the full moon shone through 
the lustrous atmosphere, and nine o’clock in the evening was striking 
on the clear sonorous bell of an antique priory, when Joseph and 
Consuelo having vainly endeavored to find a bell at the gate of the 
enclosure, walked round and round that silent habitation, in the hope 
of making themselves heard by some hospitable ear. But it was all in 
vain. All the gates were locked, not a dog barked, not a light was to 
be seen at the windows of this lifeless abode. 

“ This must be the palace of silence,” said Haydn, laughing, “and 
had not the clock twice repeated in its slow and solemn voice the four 
quarters in ut aiid in si, aiid the nine strokes for the hour in sol, I 
should believe the place abandoned to ghosts and night owls.” 

“ The country around,” said Consuelo, “ seems an absolute desert; ” 
for she was very tired, and this mysterious convent had something of 
attraction for her poetical imagination. “ Even if we must sleep in 
some chapel, I will go no further; let us try to enter at all hazards, 
even if it be over this wall, which does not look very difficult to 
climb.” 

“ Come ” said Joseph, “ I will give you my hands, on which to set 


380 


CONSUELO, 


your foot as you climb, and when once you are on the top, I will throw 
myself over quickly, and help you down.” 

*No sooner said than done ; the wall was a low one, and two minutes 
afterward, our young trespassers were walking with audacious tran- 
quillity within the sacred demesnes. It was a fine kitchen-garden 
kept up with minute pains. The fruit trees, trained into the form of 
fans on their espaliers, offered to every comer their long arms loaded 
with red-cheeked apples, and golden pears. Arbors of vines, festooned 
on arches, bore, suspended like so many chandeliers, heavy branches 
of rich grapes. The great beds of vegetables did not lack, either, their 
own peculiar beauty. Asparagus with its graceful stalks and silky 
foliage, all sparkling with the evening dew drops, resembled a forest 
of Lilliputian pines covered with a gauze of silver. Peas climbed in 
light garlands up their rods, and formed long cradled alleys, among 
which the little hedge-sparrows, not as yet well asleep, chirruped in 
low murmurs. Gourds, proud leviathans of this wavy sea of verdure, 
displayed their great golden orbs among their large dark leaves. 
Young artichokes, like so many little crowded heads, arranged them- 
selves around the principal individual, the centre of the royal stock; 
melons reposed beneath their bell glasses, like ponderous Chinese 
mandarins beneath their umbrellas; and from each of these glass 
domes, the reflection of the moon darted forth like the rays of a great 
blue diamond, against which the blundering moths persisted in knock- 
ing their heads with a ceaseless humming. 

A hedge of rose-bushes formed the line of demarcation, between the 
kitchen-garden and the flower-gjirden, which touched the buildings, 
and surrounded them with a girdle of flowers. This garden was re- 
served like a sort of elysium. Fine ornamental shrubs, overshadowed 
plants of rare beauty and exquisite fragrance. The sand of the walks 
was as soft to the feet as a carpet ; one would have said that the turf 
plats liad been combed blade by blade, so regular and even was the 
sod. The flowers stood so close that the earth could not be seen, and 
each round flower-bed resembled a large basket. 

The priory was a little building of the twelfth century, once forti- 
fied with battlements, which were now replaced by steep roofs of 
gray slate, the towers on which the machicolles and bastizans had 
been suffered to remain as ornaments, to give it a striking character, 
while great masses of ivy broke the monotony of the walls, on the 
unclothed portions of which, coldly shining in the moonlight, the 
gray and uncertain shadows of the young poplars wavered as the 
night-wind shook them. Great wreaths of vine, to conclude the pic- 
ture, mantled the cornices of all the doors and windows. 

“ This dwelling is calm and melancholy,” said Consuelo. “ But it 
does not inspire me with so much sympathy as the garden. Plants 
are made to vegetate in their places, and men to move and live in 
society. Were I a flower I should desire to grow in this garden, it is 
the place for flowers; but being a woman, I should not desire to live 
in a cell, and to shut myself up alive in a mass of gray stones. 
Should you like to be a monk, Beppo?” 

“ Not I, God keep me from it! But I should wish to live beyond 
the care of considering my daily food and lodging. I should desire to 
live a peaceful and retired life, somewhat at my ease, never distracted 
by poverty or want. In a word, I should desire to vegetate as it were 
in a sort of passive regularity, even in a dependent state, provided 
my intelligence were left free, and that I had no other care or duty 
than to compose music.” 


C O N S U E L O. 881 

“ Were it so, friend, you would compose tranquil music in conse- 
quence of composing it tranquilly.” 

“ And wherefore should it be bad on that account? What is more 
beautiful than calmness? The skies are calm, the moon is calm, 
those flowers, whose peaceful attitudes you love.” 

“ Their motionless quiet touches me only because it succeeds to the 
undulations which they borrow from -the breeze. The purity of the 
sky would not charm us had we never seen it blurred by the storm. 
The moon is never more glorious than when she wades in light 
through angry clouds. Can rest, except to the weary, bring any real 
happiness? Can that be even called rest, which is eternal? No. It 
is annihilation, it is death. Ah ! had you inhabited, as I have done, 
the Giants’ castle, for months in succession, you would be well 
assured that tranquillity is not life.” 

“ But what do you call tranquil music?” 

“ Music which is too correct, and too cold. Beware of composing 
such, if you would avoid fatigue, and the cares of the world.” 

As they spoke thus, they had arrived at the base of the walls of the 
priory. A fountain of clear water spouted out of a marble globe sur- 
mounted by a gilded cross, and fell down from bowl to bowl, until at 
last it reached a large granite shell in which a quantity of gold-flsh 
played. Consuelo and Beppo, who were scarcely more than children 
themselves, were diverted at watching their motions, when they saw 
a tall white figure, appearing with a pitcher in her hand, at whose ap- 
pearance they were at first somewhat alarmed; but as soon as she dis- 
covered our intruders, which she did not, being very near-sighted, un 
til she had nearly filled her pitcher, she dropped it, and took to hei 
heels, screaming at the top of her lungs, and invoking the Holy Vir- 
gin and all the saints. 

“ What is the matter now, dame Bridget ? ” cried a man’s voice 
from the interior of the house. “ Have you met an evil spirit? ” 

“ Two devils, or rather two thieves, are standing by the fountain,” 
replied dame Bridget, joining the questioner, who showed himself on 
the sill of the door, and stood there a few minutes, uncertain and in- 
credulous. 

“This will be another of your panics! Is it likely that thieves 
should come to attack us at such an hour as this? ” 

“ I swear to you,” she replied, “ that there are two black figures by 
the fountain yonder, as motionless as stones. See, you can make 
them out from here.” 

“ I believe I do see something,” cried the man, attempting to talk 
big. “ I will call for the gardener and his two big lads, who will soon 
take order with these fellows. They must have climbed the walls, 
for I shut all the doors myself.” 

“ In the mean time let us shut this,” said the old woman ; “ and 
then we will ring the alarm.” 

The door closed, and the young travellers stood doubting what they 
should do. To fly was to confirm the ill opinion already formed of 
them. To remain, was to await a violent attack. While they were 
.yet consulting, a ray of light streamed through the chink of a shutter 
in the upper story. It became larger; a crimson curtain, behind 
which the lamp was burning, was gently lifted, and a hand which 
showed itself white and dimpled in the clear moonlight was seen at 
the window, lifting the fringes of the curtain, while probably an un- 
seen eye was scrutinizing their every movement from within. 


C O N S U t L O. 


882 

“ All that we can do,” said Consuelo to her companion, “ is to sing. 
Allow me, — leave the words to me. No. Rather take your violin and 
play me any ritornella you please in the first key that occurs to you.” 

Joseph obeyed, and Consuelo began to sing, improvising both the 
words and the poetry, a sort of rythmic chaunt in German, divided 
by passages of recitation. 

“ We are but two young children innocent. 

As small, as weak, as tuneful as the bird 
We imitate, the lovelorn nightingale.” 

“ Now Joseph,” she whispered aside, “ a harmony to support the 
recitative.” Then she resumed: — 

“Worn by fatigue, dismayed by solitude 
Of silent night, this dwelling we descried. 

At distance empty seeming; and presumed 
With timid feet its anxious wall to scale.” 

** A harmony in la minor, Joseph,” — 

Then in a magic paradise we stood. 

Full of rare fruits, boon earth’s delicious gift; 

Hungered, athirst, if but one smallest fruit 
Be missed i’ the espalier, one grape i' the bunch. 

Let us be hunted hence, with shame and scorn.” 

‘•.A modulation to return in ut major, Joseph,” — 

“ And now they threaten us, and now suspect. 

Yet will we not escape, nor yet will hide, 

As who have done no wrong, unless to climb 
The walls of the Lord’s house be wrong. 

Yet. when the question is. how paradise 
To scale, all roads are good, the shortest best.” 

Consuelo concluded her recitative by one of those pretty canticles 
in vulgar Latin, which is called in Venice Latino defrate, and which 
the people sing at night before the Madonna. When she had finished, 
the two white hands which had gradually, advanced during the sing- 
ing applauded eagerly, and a voice, which did not sound entirely 
strange to her ear, cried from the window — “ Welcome, disciples of the 
muses, enter, enter. Hospitality invites and awaits you.” 

The young people drew nigh, and a moment afterward a servant, in 
a red and violet livery, opened the door to them civilly. “ I took you 
for robbers, my young friends, and I beg your pardon for it,” he said 
laughing; “ but it is your own fault. Why did you not sing before? 
With such a passport as your violin and your voice, you could not 
fail of a good reception from my master. Come; it appears he is ac- 
quainted with you before.” 

As he spoke thus, the civil servant had ascended a dozen steps of 
very easy stairs before them, all covered with a soft Turkey carpet. 
Before Joseph had time to ask his master’s nanie, he had opened the 
two leaves of a folding door, which closed noislessly behind them, and, 
after having crossed a comfortable antechamber, introduced them into 
a drawing-room where the gracious owner of this happy abode, seated 
opposite to a fine roast pheasant, between two bottles of old golden 
wine, was already beginning to digest his first course even while he 


CONSUELO. 


383 


was paternally and majestically attacking the second. On his return 
from his morning walk he had committed himself to the hands of his 
valet to restore his complexion. He had been shaved and powdered 
anew. The slightly gray curls of his fine head were daintily rounded 
and besprinkled with a siiade of exquisitely scented powder. His well- 
shaped hands rested on his knees, clad in black satin breeches with 
gold buckles. His well-turned leg, of which he was a little vain, dec- 
orated with a pair of very transparent violet stockings, well pulled up 
rested on a velvet cushion, and his noble corporation, enveloped in an 
excellent doublet of puce-colored silk, wadded and stitched, reclined 
deliciously in a great tapestry arm-chair, where no part of the elbow 
saw the slightest risk of encountering an angle, so well was it stuffed 
and rounded on every side. Seated near the chimney, which blazed 
and crackled, behind her master’s arm-chair, dame Bridget, the housc- 
* keeper, was preparing his coffee with a sort of religious care, while a 
second valet — not less perfect in his dress, or less courteous in his 
manners than the other — was delicately detaching one of the pheas- 
ant’s wings, which the holy man awaited, without either impatience 
or anxiety. 

Consuelo and Joseph bowed deeply, as they recognised in the per- 
son of their benevolent host, monsieur, the major canon, and jubilary 
of the cathedral chapel of St. Stephen, before whom they had sung 
the mass on the previous day. 


CHAPTER LXXVII. 

Monsieur the Canon was a man as comfortably situated as any 
one in the world could be. At the age of seven years, thanks to royal 
protection which had not failed him, he had been declared at the age 
of reason, agreeably to the canons of the church, which, admit that al- 
though one have not much reason at that age, he has at least enough 
to receive and enjoy the fruits of a benefice. In consequence of this 
decision, the young priest was admitted to the dignity of canon, al- 
though the natural son of a king.— Still, in accordance with the canons 
of the church— which always presumptively accept the legitimacy of 
a child presented to a benefice under the protection of royalty; al- 
though other articles of the same canons insist that all pretenders to 
the holding of ecclesiastical benefices must be the issue of good and 
lawful marriages, in defiiult of which they may be declared incapable, 
not to say unicorthy, and infamous, as might be done upon occasion. 

A man of intellect, a good orator, an elegant writer, the canon had 
promised and still promised himself that he would write a book on 
the rights, privileges, and immunities of his chapter. Surrounded by 
dusty quartos which he had never opened, he had not made his own 
book, he was not making it, he was never likely to make it. The two 
secretaries who had been engaged at the expense of the chapter to 
assist him, had no occupation but to perfume his person and prepare 
his table. Much interest followed his book— it was expected eagerly 
—a thousand dreams of ambition, of revenge, of money, were built 
upon the power of his arguments. This book, which had no exist- 
encc; already gained its author a reputation for perseverance, anibi- 


884 


C O N S U K L O, 


tion, and eloquence, of which he did not care to adduce any direct 
proofs. Not that he was incapable of making good the opinion of 
his fellows, but that life is short, dinners are long, the cares of the 
toilet are indispensable, and the far niente delicious; in addition to 
which onr canon had two innocent, although insatiable passions; the 
one for horticulture, the other for music. How, then, amid such a 
crowd of occupations should he have found room to attack his con- 
templated book? Beside all this, he had not failed to discover how 
pleasant it is to talk of a book which is in progress, and how disagree- 
able to talk of one which is completed. 

In other respects, he was an extremely good-natured churchman; 
tolerant, not devoid of wit, eloquent and orthodox among churchmen, 
good-humored, full of anecdotes, easy of access in the world, affable, 
cordial, and generous with artists. 

Our young travellers were therefore received by him with the most 
gracious kindness. 

“You are children,” he said, “full of talent and resources, and I 
am much pleased with you. Moreover, you have genius, and one of 
you — which I know not — has the sweetest and most touching voice I 
ever heard in my life. That voice is a prodigy, a treasure ; and I was 
sorry this morning, when you left the curacy so abruptly, at the 
thought that I never should see you, never hear you again. In a 
word, I lost my appetite; I was out of spirits, absent. The fine 
voice and exquisite music seemed to be permanently infixed in my 
ears, in my soul. But Providence, ever gracious to me, has brought 
you back to me, and perhaps your own good hearts, my children, 
have had something to do with this, for you must have perceived that 
I can understand and appreciate you.” 

“We are bound to confess. Monsieur Canon,” said Joseph, “that 
chance alone brought us hither, and that we w'ere far from reckoning 
on such good fortune.” 

“ The good fortune is mine,” replied the amiable canon; “ and you 
shall sing for me — that is, not now, for you are tired, and I dare say 
hungry, and that would be selfishness on my part. You shall sup 
first, have a good night’s rest in my house, and to-morrow we will 
have music; yes! music all day long. Andrew, conduct these young 
people to the offices, and take every possible care of them ; But no ! 
let them remain ; set two covers for them at the end of my table, and 
let them sup with me.” 

Andrew obeyed his orders promptly, and even with a sort of good- 
humored pleasure; but dame Bridget showed a very different disposi- 
tion ; she shook her head — hunched up her shoulders, and grumbled 
between her teeth — “ Very pretty folk, forsooth! to sit at your table 
— nice society, truly, for a person of your station in society ! ” 

“Hold your tongue, Bridget!” replied the canon calmly. “You 
are satisfied with nothing and with nobody; and when you see any 
one enjoy a little pleasure, it makes you rancorous.” 

Some farther wrangling ensued— for Bridget answered back, and 
the canon disputed with "her, much to the amazement of Consuelo, 
who was astonished to see a man of such station condescending to 
parley with his own servants, and to enter into the smallest details of 
the cookery and the service. The supper, however, was exquisite and 
abundant, even to profusion ; and at the end of the repast the cook 
was called in, gently blamed for the composition of some dishes, 
affectionately praised for others, and learnedly instructed as to others 


C O N S U E L O. 


385 


again, in which he was not absolutely perfect. But at dessert, when 
he had given his housekeeper also her share in his praises and repri- 
mands, the canon did not forget to pass from these graver questions 
to the subject of music; and soon showed himself in a far better light 
to his young guests. He had received a good musical education, a 
foundation of sound study, Just ideas, and an accurate taste. He was 
a very fair organist, and having sat down to the harpsichord after 
dinner, played several fragments of the old German masters, which 
he executed with much purity of taste, and according to the good 
traditions of old times. Listening to these was a source of pleasure 
to Consuelo, and very soon, having found a great book of that old 
music, she began to turn over the leaves, and forgetting both her own 
fatigue and the lateness of the hour, requested the canon to play her 
several pieces — which had struck her eye — in his bold, clear style. 
The canon was excessively pleased at being thus listened to. The 
music which he played was no longer the fashion, and he seldom met 
with amateurs after his own heart. He took, accordingly, a great 
fancy to Consuelo, while Joseph, worn out with fatigue, had fallen 
asleep in a treacherously comfortable arm-chair.*’ 

“ Truly,” cried the canon, in a moment of enthusiasm, “ you are 
a most happily gifted youth. Your precocious judgment announces a 
marvellous hereafter. This is the first time in my life that lever have 
regretted the celibacy which my life imposes upon me.” 

This compliment made Consuelo both blush and tremble, for she 
thought he had discovered that she was a woman; but she instantly 
recovered herself when he added — “Yes! I regret having no chil- 
dren, for heaven might, perchance, have granted to me a son such as 
thou, who would have been the pride of my life, even if Bridget had 
been its mother. But tell me, my young friend, what think you of 
this Sebastian Bach, whose music is turning the heads of all this gen- 
eration of .sawaw.s ? Do yon also think him a prodigious genius? I 
have a volume of all his works there, which I have had collected and 
bound — because one must have everything, but I confess to you that 
being excessively difficult to read, I got tired of attempting it. Be- 
sides which, I have but little time for music, which I snatch from more 
serious occupatious. Because you saw me somewhat engaged with 
my housekeeper about the little cares of my menage, you must not 
imagine that 1 am altogether a free or happy man. I am a slave, on 
the contrary, to an enormous, almost frightful work, which I have 
imposed upon myself. I am writing a book, on which I have been 
engaged about thirty years, and which any other person could hardly 
have composed in forty — a book which requires incredible study, late 
watching, patience that can surmount everything, and the deepest re- 
flection; and, in truth, 1 think that it will make some stir.” 

“ And will it be soon finished ? ” asked Consuelo. 

“ Not yet, not yet! ” replied Xhe canon, desirous, perhaps, of con- 
cealing from himself that it was not even begun. “ We were talking 
about the extreme difficulty of Sebastian Bach’s music, and to me, 
I confess that it seems to me a little fantastical.” 

“ I think, nevertheless, that if you would take the trouble to sur- 
mount your repugnance, you would come to the opinion, that he is a 
genius who enkindles, reproduces, and vivifies all science, past and 
present.” 

“ Well,” replied the canon, “ if it be so, we will try all three of us 
to decypher something of it to-morrow. It is time now that you 
24 


386 


CONSUELO. 


should take some rest and that I should go to my studies. But to- 
morrow you will pass the day with me. That is understood ; is it 
not ? ” 

“ The day! — that is saying a good deal, monsieur. We are in great 
haste to reach Vienna, but in the morning we shall be at your ser- 
Yice.” 

The canon protested and insisted, and Consuelo pretended to yield, 
though inwardly determined to hurry over a little the slow move- 
ments of the great Bach, and to leave the priory about noon. When 
it was time to talk of going to bed, a warm discussion arose between 
dame Bridget and the first valet-de-chambre, concerning the quality 
of lodgings to be assigned to them — the obliging man-servant wishing 
to accommodate them with comfortable rooms in obedience to his 
master’s wishes — the housekeeper wanting to put them in some mis- 
erable cells on the ground-floor, which discussion was not brought to 
a close until the canon himself, who had overheard from his dining- 
room, all that WHS passing, put an end to it, and summarily silenced 
Madam Bridget. 

After our travellers had taken possession of their pretty dormitories, 
they long heard the harsh voice of the ill-tempered old woman grum- 
bling like a wintry wind through the hollow corridors. But when the 
bustle, which harbingered the solemn retiring of the canon, had 
ceased, dame Bridget came a-tip-toe to the door of her young guests, 
and adroitly turned the key in each lock, so as to fasten them securely 
in. Joseph, who had never before in all his life slept in such a bed, 
was already buried in deep slumber; and Consuelo, after laughing at 
Bridget’s terrors, followed his example. The idea that she, who had 
trembled every night of their journey, should now inspire terror to 
another, seemed in itself absurd, and she might well have applied to 
herself the fable of the frogs and the hare; but it would be too bold 
to atfirm that Consuelo had ever heard of the fables of la Fontaine; 
although at this period, all the wits of the world were at issue ou 
their merits. Voltaire made fun of them, and Frederick the Great, 
who desired to ape his philosophy, despised them from the bottom of 
his heart. 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

At break of day, Consuelo, seeing that the sun shone brightly, and 
feeling herself invited, by the merry warbling of the birds, who were 
already making good cheer in the gardens, to take an early walk, arose 
and tried to leave her chamber, but the night-watch was not yet re- 
moved, and Bridget still held her prisoners safe under lock and key. 
Consuelo thought at first that this must be some ingenious stratagem 
on the canon’s part, who, in order to secure their musical services, 
had begun by making sure of their persons. But the young girl, who 
had become bold and active, since she had donned the male attire, 
saw that a descent from the window would be rendered very easy by 
a large vine which was supported by a massive trellis {gainst the wall 
of the building. Descending then slowly and with precaution, in 
order to avoid injuring the fine grapes, she easily reached the ground, 
and hurried away into the garden, laughing within herself at the sur- 


C O N S U E L o. 387 

prise and disappointment of Bridget, when she should find all hei 
precautions useless. 

Consuelo now savv all the superb fruits 'and sumptuous flowers, 
which she had so much admired by moonlight, under a different as- 
pect. The breath of the morning, and the laugliing rosy tints of the 
sun, gave a new poetry to those fair productions of the earth. A robe 
of lustrous velvet covered the fruits, the dew hung in pearls of crys- 
tal on all the branches, and the turf-plats, overlaid with silver, ex- 
haled that slight refreshing odor which resembles the aspiring breath 
of earth striving to mount toward heaven, and blend with it in loving 
unison. But nothing could equal the freshness and the beauty of the 
flowers, still surcharged with the humidity of the night, at this mys- 
terious hour of dawn, when they expand their petals, as if to display 
treasures of purity, and to outpour the most exquisite of odors, which 
the earliest and purest sunbeams are alone worthy to see and possess 
for one moment. The canon’s parterre was a paradise of delights to 
a lover of horticulture. To Consuelo’s eyes it was something too 
symmetrical and formal. But the fifty varieties of roses — the rare 
and charming hibiscuses, the purple stocks, the ever-varying gerani- 
ums, the sweet-scented daturas, deep opal cups impregnated with the 
ambrosia of the gods, the elegant asclepiades, subtle buds of poison, 
wherein the insect race find a voluptuous death ; the spendid cactuses 
displaying glowing crimson hues, on strange and wrinkled stems, stud- 
ded with angry thorns, a thousand curious and beautiful plants, of 
which Consuelo had never heard the names, any more than she 
knew the countries whence they came, for a long time occupied her 
attention. 

Suddenly, in the midst of the fanciful harmonies of that delicious 
contemplation, Consuelo heard loud and painfully piercing human 
cries, appearing to come -from a clump of trees which appeared to 
conceal the external walls. To these cries succeeded the roll of a 
carriage, and the carriage stopping, loud blows were struck against 
the iron grate which, on that side, closed the entrance into the gar- 
den. But, whether all the world was still asleep, or that no one chose 
to answer, they knocked again and again to no purpose, and the ago- 
nizing shrieks of a woman, intermingled with the hoarse oaths of a 
man shouting for succor, struck the walls of the priory, and awakened 
no more echoes from those senseless stones than they did from the 
hearts of the inhabitants. All the windows on that side of the house 
were so perfectly caulked, in order to prevent any interruption to the 
canon’s slumbers, that no noise could penetrate the stout oaken 
shutters, padded and stuffed with horse hair. The valets were en- 
gaged in the offices behind the priory, and heard nothing of the din. 
Dogs there were none about the priory, for the canon loved not those 
troublesome guardians, which under the pretence of keeping rogues at 
a distance, disturb the slumbers of their masters. Consuelo first en- 
deavored to get into the house to give notice of the arrival of travel- 
lers in distress, but all was so well closed that she could make no im- 
pression, and following her first impulse, she ran to the grate whence 
the voice came to her ears. 

A travelling carriage, covered with luggage, and whitened with the 
dust of a long journey, stood at the entrance of the principal alley 
of the garden. The postilions had got olf their horses, in order to 
knock at the inhospitable gate, while groans and lamentations issued 
from the carriage windows. 


388 


C O N S U E L O, 


‘‘Open,” shouted the men to Consuelo. “ Open, if ye be Chiis- 
tians ! There is a lady dying here.” 

“ Open,” cried a woman, whose features -were unknown to Consuelo, 
leaning as she spoke out of the window, and using tl>e Venetian dia- 
lect. “ Madam will die if she be not promptly aided. Open, then, if 
ye be men.” 

Consuelo, without reflecting on the results of her previous at- 
tempts, tried to open the gate, but it was closed with a huge padlock, 
the key of which was probably in dame Bridget’s pocket. The bell 
was in like manner protected by a secret spring. In that tranquil 
and honest country, these precautions had not been taken againsi 
malefactors, but against noise and the annoyance of untimely visits. 
It was impassible, therefore, for Consuelo to do what she most desired, 
and she endured with pain the abusive language of the chamber- 
maid, who, talking to her mistress in Venetian, kept ex-claiming — 
“ Oh! the little idiot! — the little fool does not know how to open the 
door,” until at length the lady herself showed her head, and cried out 
in bad German — “ Ha ! by the blood of the devil ! do go and get some 
one who can open the gate, you wretched little animal ! ” 

This energetic apostrophe reassured Consuelo as to the imminence 
of the lady’s danger. “ If she be near dying,” said she to herself, “ it 
must needs be a violent death ! ” and thinking thus, she adressed the 
lady, whose accent was clearly Venetian as that of her servant 
woman, in the same dialect. 

“ I do not belong to this house,” said she: “I only received hospi- 
tality here for last night. I will go and try to awaken the owners, 
which will be neither quickly nor easily done. Are you in such dan- 
ger, madam, that you cannot wait here a short time without despair- 
ing?” 

“ I am on the point of being confined, you fool,” cried the traveller: 
“ run, scream, break every thing, bring people and get me admitted 
here, and you shall be well paid for your trouble.” And she began 
again to shriek at the top of her voice. Consuelo felt her knees 
tremble under her; for neither the face nor the voice of the woman 
was unknown to her. 

“ What is the name of your mistress? ” she asked the waiting maid, 

“ What is that to you? ” cried the waiting-maid, now entirely be- 
wildered. “Kun, you little wretch, or you shall get nothing at all 
from us.” 

“ Ah ! ” I want nothing from you,” answered Consuelo, with spirit, 
“ but I want to know who you are, and I will know it. If your mis- 
tress is a musician, you will be received here eagerly, and if I am not 
mistaken, she is a celebrated singer.” 

“ Go, my little one,” said the lady within, who, in the intervals of 
pain, was calm and collected. 

“ You are not mistaken. Go, tell the people who live here, that the 
celebrated Gorilla is at the door, almost dving, unless some charitable 
person or good artist will take compassion, on me. I will pay— tell 
her that I will pay largely. Alas! Sophia,” said she to her maid, 
“ have me laid on the ground ; I shall suffbr less by the roadside than 
in this infernal carriage.” Consuelo was already running to the pri- 
ory, determined at all hazards to obtain access to the canon ; and she 
could not even find room for wonder at the strange chance which 
brought her rival thither in such a pass; she was only anxious to 
assist her; but she had no occasion now to knock, for she found 


CONSUELO. 389 

Bridget, at length, aroused by the knocking, followed by the gardener 
and valet-de-chambre. 

“ A fine story, truly! ” she said, when Consuelo had told her the 
facts. Do not go, Andrew, do uot stir a foot, gardener. How should 
a lady have set out on a journey at such a time ? And if she has, is 
it not her own fault? How can we hinder her sufferings? Let her 
be confined in her carriage, which she can be just as easily as with us, 
who have no idea of receiving such visitors.” 

This discourse, which was begun for Consuelo’s benefit, and grum- 
bled the whole length of the walk, was finished to Gorilla’s maid, 
through the gate, and while the travellers were exchanging reproach- 
es, invectives, and even abuse with the ill-tempered housekeeper, Con- 
suelo had entered the house, hoping to succeed with the goodness 
and artistic predilections of the canon. She sought in vain for the 
master’s apartment, and only came neanto losing herself in the large 
rambling building, with the details of which she was wholly unac- 
quainted. At last, she met Haydn, who was looking for her, and who 
told her that the canon was in the orangery. They went thither to- 
gether, and found the worthy man coming to meet them, beneath an 
arbor of jessamine, with a face as fresh and smiling as the fine afutum- 
nal morning. She was already beginning to lay before him the case 
of poor Gorilla, when Bridget, appearing quite unexpectedly, cut her 
short with these words: “ There is a vagabond down yonder at your 
gate, a theatrical singer, who says she is famous and who has the air 
and tones of a low drab. She says she is in child-birth, cries and 
swears like twenty devils, and insists on being confined here. See 
how you like that.” 

The canon made a gesture of disgust and refusal. 

“ Monsieur Canon,” said Consuelo, “ whatever this woman may be, 
she is still a woman — she is suffering, her life is perchance in danger, 
as well as that of the innocent creature whom God has called into 
this world, and whom religion commands you, perhaps, to receive into 
the pale of Christianity. You will not allow her to lie at your door, 
groaning and in agony.” 

“ Is she married?” asked the canon, coldly, after a moment’s con- 
sideration. 

“ 1 know not. Perhaps she may be; but what matters it. God has 
granted her the happiness of becoming a mother; it is for Him alone 
to judge.” 

“ She told me her name, Monsieur Canon,” resumed Bridget, vio- 
lently, “ and you must know her, you who are on terms with all the 
actors in Venice. Her name is Gorilla.” 

“ Gorilla!” cried the canon. “Has she come from Venice already? 
She has a fine voice, I hear.” 

“ In favor of her fine voice, open the door to her. She is lying in 
the dust at your gate,” said Consuelo. 

“ She is a woman of evil life,” replied the canon. “ She made a 
great scandal at Venice, a year since.” 

“ And there are many persons who envy your reverence this bene- 
fice, Monsieur Canon. Do you mark me? If an abandoned woman 
were to be confined here, you are undone — it would not be represen- 
ted as a chance, much less as an act of charity ! ” said dame Bridget. 

These words made a final impression on the canon. He laid them 
up in the sanctuary of his prudence, although he pretended to have 
scarcely heard them. 


890 


C O N S TJ E L O. 


“There is,” he said, “ an inn ^yithin a hundred yards, let the lady 
go thither. She will find all that she requires there, and will be much 
better than at a bachelor’s house. Go tell her so, Bridget; but po- 
litely, very politely. Show the postilions the inn ; and you, my cliil- 
dren,” he continued, turning to Joseph and Consuelo, “come and try 
one of Bach’s fugues with me, while they are getting breakfast ready 
for us.” 

“ Monsieur Canon ! ” cried Consuelo, deeply moved., “ will you 
abandon her ? ” 

But at this moment the canon stopped abruptly, in seeming conster- 
nation. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “here is my finest volkameria dried 
up and dead. I have told the gardener often enough that he did not 
water it sufficiently. The rarest and most inimitable plant in my 
garden. Go, Bridget, call the gardener, that I may scold him.” 

“ I will go first and send the famous Corilla about her business,” 
said Bridget, retiring. 

“And do you consent to this? Will you permit this. Monsieur 
Canon?” cried Consuelo, indignantly. 

“ It is impossible for me to do otherwise,” he replied, in a soft 
voice, but with an accent which denoted a firmly planted resolution. 
“ I desire that I may hear no more about it. Come, then, I am wait- 
ing to hear music.” 

“ There is no more music for you here,” answered Consuelo, ener- 
getically. “ You are not capable of understanding Sebastian Bach, 
you who have no bowels of compassion. Ah! may your fruits and 
flowers perish! May the frost cut your jessamines, and kill your 
finest shrubs! May this soil, hitherto so fertile, which gives you 
everything in profusion, produce nothing for you now but brambles, 
for you have no heart, and avail yourself of the gifts of heaven, re- 
gardless of the rites of hospitality.” 

As she spoke thus, Consuelo left the canon gazing in astonishment 
about him, as if he really feared to see the curse of heaven called 
down by that fiery spirit, alight on his precious volkamerias, and 
cherished anemones. She ran to the grating which had not been 
opened, scaled it without hesitation, and followed Corilla to the mis- 
erable pot-house, to which, under the title of inn, the canon had di- 
rected her. 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 

Joseph Haydn, who was by this time accustomed to surrender 
himself to the sudden impulses of his comrade, but endowed with a 
calmer spirit, and a more reflective character, did not hesitate to 
obey her, but he first went to fetch their knapsack and violin with its 
music, the bread-winner, the consoler, and the Joyous companion of 
their route. Corilla was laid on one of those wretched beds common 
to German inns, in which you must choose, so small are they, 
whether your head or feet shall be exposed beyond the end. Un- 
luckily there was no woman in the hovel: the mistress had gone on a 
pilgrimage to a place six leagues distant, and the girl of the house 
had been sent to drive the cow to pasture. An old man and a boy 
were keeping house and more alarmed than pleased at the arrival of 


C () N S U E L O. 


391 

the rich travellers, suffered their house to be turiiccl upside down 
without seeming to think of the miscliief that might be done. The 
old man was deaf; the boy had been sent for the midwife of a neigh- 
boring village, at least a league distant. The postilions were much 
more disturbed about their horses, which had nothing to eat, than 
about their passengers; and she, abandoned to the care of her maid, 
who had lost her head, and was crying nearly as loud as she did her- 
self, filled the air with her outcries, which more resembled the rav- 
ings of a lioness than the groans of a woman. 

Consuelo, seized with terror and compassion, resolved that she 
W'oiild not forsake the unhappy creature. 

“ Joseph,” she said to her companion, “ return to the priory, even 
if you should be badly received there. Tell the canon to send hither 
linen, bedding, soup, wine, everything in short which a sick person 
requires. Speak to him kindly but firmly, and promise him, if neces- 
sary, that we w’ill make music for him if he will assist this unhappy 
woman.” 

Joseph set forth, and poor Consuelo remained a spectator of the 
repulsive scene of a woman, without faith or hope, undergoing the 
august martyrdom of maternity, with blasphemy and imprecations. 
She nevei- ceased to curse her destiny, her journey, the canon and 
his housekeeper — even the child that she was about to bring into the 
world — while she abused her maid servant to such a degree, that she 
rendered her utterly incapable of rendering her any service, and 
drove her, in tears, into the next room. 

At times, when her pains ceased for a while, recovering her spirits 
and courage, she would talk quietly, and even jest with Consuelo, 
whom she did not recognise, and then again she would burst forth into 
the most hideous blasphemy. “ Ah ! cursed, thrice accursed, be the 
father of this child!” and as fresh pangs would seize her, she tore 
lier neck-handkerchief asunder, and seizing Consuelo’s arm with a 
gripe that left the impress of her nails in the flesh, she shrieked out, 
‘‘Accursed! accursed! accursed! be the vile, infamous Anzoleto!” 

At this moment Sophia returned into the chamber, and at the end 
of a quarter of an hour Gorilla was delivered of a girl, which the 
maid wrapped in the first piece of clothing she could lay hands on in 
an open trunk. It was a theatrical mantle of tarnished satin, edged 
with fringes of tinsel, and it was in this miserable frippery that the 
pure betrothed of the noble Albert received on her knees the child 
of Anzoleto and Gorilla. 

“ Gome, madam, be consoled,” said the poor serving girl, with an 
accent of simple and sincere good-nature. “ It is all over, and yon 
have got a beautiful little girl.” 

‘‘ Girl or boy, little care I, for I am in pain no longer,” said Gorilla,, 
raising herself on her elbow, without looking at her child. “ Give' 
me a large glass of wine.” 

Joseph had now returned from the priory, bringing everything that 
a sick person could require, and that of the best, so that she had 
whatever she called for on the instant, and soon afterward, stretching 
herself out on the canon’s comfortable cushiotis, she fell asleep, with 
all the easy abandonment which she derived from her iron consti- 
tution and her soul of ice. During her sleep the child was comforta- 
bly dressed, and that done, Gonsnclo, who felt nothing but disgust to- 
ward Gorilla, gave the babe to the girl of the inn, who' had returned, 
and seemed a good-natured person; then calling to Joseph, she took 
her way back with him toward the priory. 


392 


CONSUELO, 


“ I did not promise the canon,” said he, as they went on their way 
“to bring you back to the priory. He seemed ashamed of his con- 
duct, although he affected to be very much at his ease. In spite of a 
little selfishness, he is a good man at heart, and seemed really glad to 
send Gorilla whatever was necessary.” 

“ I will recompense the good canon for my impetuosity,” said Con- 
suelo. “ For, in truth, there are souls so hard and hideous, that 
weak minds should inspire us with pity only.” 

Far from being angry, the canon received them with open arms, 
forced them to breakfast with him, and then they all sat down to the 
piano. Consuelo soon made him understand the admirable preludes 
of the great Bach, and to put him into a thoroughly good humor, she 
sang to him all the finest airs she knew, without endeavoring to con- 
ceal her voice, and with little fear of his observing her sex or age; 
for the good canon appeared resolved to divine nothing which should 
run counter to his delight at listening to such music. He was truly 
a passionate lover of music, and his transports had a depth and sin- 
cerity which could not fail to touch Consuelo. 

“ You are a strange child — a child of genius,” cried the canon, pat- 
ting Consuelo's brown head with chaste and paternal fondness. 
“ You wear the livery of poverty, who ought to be borne aloft in tri- 
umph. Tell me who you are, and whence have you learned all that 
you know ? ” 

“ From accident and nature. Monsieur Canon.” 

“ Ah ! you are deceiving me,” said the canon, sl3dy. “ You must be 
a son of Cafarelli or of Farinelli. But listen to me, my children,” he 
added with a serious but earnest air, “ I will not have you leave me. 
I take charge of you ; stay with me. I have fortune, and it shall be 
yours. I will be to you what Gravina was to Metastasio. It shall be 
my happiness and glory. Attach yourself to me. You need only en- 
ter the minor orders; I will take care to procure some snug little 
benefices, and after my death you will find that I have some savings, 
which I have no idea whatever of leaving to that harpy Bridget.” 

As the canon uttered these words Bridget entered suddenly, and 
heard what he said. “ And I,” she cried in a choking voice, and with 
tears of rage — ” and I intend no longer to serve an ungrateful master. 
It is long enough already that I have been sacrificing to you my repu- 
tation and my youth.” 

“Your reputation? your youth?” interrupted the cation, sneer- 
ingly, without being in the least put out. “Ah, you flatter yourself, 
my poor old woman. What you are pleased to call the one protects 
tlie other.” 

“ Yes! yes! ” she replied, “ sneer as you will. But never expect to 
see me again. I quit a house in which I can establish neither decency 
nor order. Pay me my Avages; I will not pass the night under your 
roof.” 

“Have we come to that?” said the canon, very calmly. “Well, 
Bridget, you give me great pleasure, and may you never regret it. I 
never dismiss any one from my service, and I believe if the devil were 
once in it, I should not turn him out. But if the devil wished to go, 
I am so good-natured that I should not hinder him, but should sing a 
magnificat to his departure. Go and make up your baggage, Bridget, 
ami as for your wages, sum them up jmurself, my child. Whatever 
you want, even if it were all that I possess, shall be yours, if you will 
only go at once.” 


CONSUELO. 


393 

** Oh, Monsieur Canon,” exclaimed Haydn, who was not unmoved 
by tliis domestic scene, “ you will greatly regret a servant so much 
attached.” 

“ She is attached to my benefice,” replied the canon, “ and for my 
part, I shall only regret her coffee.” 

“ You will soon be accustomed to doing without her coffee. Mon- 
sieur Canon,” said Consuelo, very firm and stern, “ and you are doing 
well. Be silent, Joseph, and speak for her no more. I will say it out 
before her, because it is the truth. She is evil-minded and hurtful to 
her master. He is good; nature made him noble and generous, but 
that woman renders him selfish. She checks all the good emotions 
of his soul, and if he keeps her, she will render him as hard and 
heartless as she is herself. Pardon me, Monsieur Canon, for speaking 
thus, but you have made me sing so much, and have so raised my en- 
thusiasm by the display of your own, that I am almost out of my 
head. But believe me, I do not desire your fortune; I have not a 
wish — not a want. If I desired it, I could even be richer than you; 
and an artist’s life is so full of risks, that perhaps you will survive me, 
and then it will be you who will find yourself inscribed on my will, 
in gratitude for what you have done in behalf of us to-day. To- 
morrow we set off, perhaps to meet no more, but we set off with 
hearts full of respect, of gratitude, and of love foi you, if you discharge 
Madame Bridget, whose pardon I beg of you for this plain mode of 
speaking.” 

Two hours afterward the dispossessed queen departed from the pri- 
ory, after having subjected it to not a little pillage. This the canon 
affected not to observe, and by the expression of supreme content 
which overspread his countenance, Haydn perceived that Consuelo had 
done him a real service. She, at dinner, to prevent his feeling the 
slightest regret, made coffee for him after the Venetian fashion, which 
is the best in the world. Andrew immediately set himself to take les- 
sons other, and the canon declared that he had never sipped better 
coffee in his life. They had music again in the evening, after sending 
to enquire after Corilla, who was already, as they brought word, sitting 
up in the arm-chair, which the canon had sent her. In the evening, 
they walked in the garden, by the light of a glorious moon, the canon 
leaning on Consuelo’s arm, and still imploring her to take minor 
orders, and to attach herself to him as his adopted son. 

“ Beware.” said Joseph to her, as they were parting at the doors of 
their chambers; “this good canon is becoming a little too seriously 
taken with you.” 

“ Nothing should disquiet us while travelling. I shall no more be- 
come an abbe than I have become a trumpeter. M. Mayer, Count 
Iloditz, and the canon have all counted without a to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER LXXX. 

Nevertheless, Consuelo had retired to her own chamber, with- 
out giving Joseph the signal for departure at daybreak for which he 
had looked. She had reasons of her own for not hurrying her depart- 
ure, and Joseph was content to await them, too well pleased to pass 


394 


CONSUELO. 


a few more hours in so pleasant a house, leading the jolly canonical 
life which he found so agreeable. Consuelo permitted herself to 
sleep until late in the morning, and did not appear until the canon’s 
second breakfast, for he had the habit of rising very early, taking a 
slight and dainty repast, walking in his gardens and thi-ough his hot- 
houses, WMth his breviary in his hand, and then taking a second nap 
W’hile aw'aiting a savoi'y breakfast a la fourchette. 

“ Our neighbor, the travelling lady, is very well,” said he to our 
young travellers, as soon as be met them. “ I sent to enquire after 
her, and to let Andrew' serve her breakfast. She expressed much 
gratitude for our attentions, and as she is about to set off this very 
day for Vienna, contrary to all prudence, she begs that you will go 
and see her, in order that she may recompense the charitable zeal 
you have shown in her behalf. Therefore, my children, breakfast as 
quickly as you can, and then go to her. Doubtless you will receive 
some pretty present from her.” 

“ We will breakfast as slowdy as we can, Monsieur Canon, and w'e 
will not go to see the sick woman. She has no longer need of us, 
and we have no need of her presents.” 

” Singtdar boy!” cried the canon, in astonishment. “Your ro- 
mantic disinterestedness gains on me to such a degree that I shall 
never be able to part with you.” 

Consuelo smiled, and they sat down to table. The breakfast was 
ilelicious, and lasted nearly two hours; but the dessert was very differ- 
ent from what the canon anticipated. 

“ Your reverence,” said Andrew', appearing at the door. “ Mother 
Bertha, the w’oman of the inn, has brought you hither a large basket, 
on behalf of the lady who lay in.” 

“It is the silver I lent her, I suppose,” said the canon: receive it, 
Andrew, it is your affair. The lady, then, is set on going to- day.” 

“ She is gone, your reverence.” 

“Already! She must be mad. She must assuredly W'ish to kill 
herself.” 

“ No, Monsieur Canon ; she neither wishes to kill herself, nor w'ill 
she kill herself,” said Andrew'. 

“ Well, Andrew, what are you doing there with so ceremonious an 
air? ” 

“ Mother Bertha w'ill not give me the basket, your reverence; she 
says she is charged to give it into your hands only, and she has some- 
thing to say to you.” 

“Well, well; it is a scruple or an affectation, at having received a 
deposit. Let her come in, and we will get it over.” 

The old woman entered, and with many curtseys, deposited upon 
the table a great basket covered with a veil. Consuelo moved her 
hajid toward it quickly, while the canon’s head was turned toward 
Bertha, and having pulled the veil a little aside, said to Joseph, 
“ This is what I expected. This is the cause of my rernair.ing here. 
Yes; I w'as sure of it. Corllla was certain to act thus.” 

“Well, Mother Bertha,” said the canon, at the same time. “So 
you have brought back the household stuff I lent your guest. Good 
—good— but I was in no wdse in anxiety about it, and I am sure none 
of it is missing, w'ithout so much as even looking at it.” 

“Your reverence,” replied the old woman, “my servant girl 
brought all that, and 1 have given it to your officers. Nothing was 
missing, and I am quite easy on that head; but, with regard to this 


C O N S U E L o. 395 

basket, I was sworn to deliver it to yourself only, and you know what 
it contains as well as I.” 

“I will be hanged if I do,” said the canon, moving his hand care- 
lessly towards the basket. But his hand remained as if struck by cat- 
alepsy, and his mouth stood half open with surprise, as the veil was 
moved and partly opened from within, and a little child's hand, rosy 
and delicate, showed itself, making a vague and feeble movement to 
grasp the canon's finger. 

“ Yes, indeed, your reverence,” said the old woman, with a smile of 
confident satisfaction, “liere it is, safe and sound, only wide awake 
and with a resolute determination to live.” 

The canon had absolutely lost the use of his tongue from astonish- 
ment, and the old woman continued, “ By ’r lady, your reverence 
asked it of its mother to bring up and adopt! The poor lady had 
much trouble to determine on doing so; bnt at last we told her that 
her child could not be in better hands, and she recommended it to 
Providence as she gave it ns to bring to yon. As for me, she paid me 
very well. I ask nothing, and am very well satisfied indeed.” 

‘•Ah! you are satisfied, are you? ” cried the canon, in a tragi-comic 
tone. Well, 1 am charmed to hear it. But now be so good as to 
carry away iDoth the purse and the bantling. Spend the one, educate 
the other. It does not concern me the least in the world.” 

“ I bring up the child ! — Oh ! no, indeed ! — not I, your reverence. I 
am too old to take such a charge on myself as a new-born babe. 
They cry all night long, and my old man, deaf as he is, M'ould never 
consent to such an arrangement as that.” 

“And I — pray how am I to arrange it? Many thanks, forsooth I 
So you counted upon that, did you? ” 

“ Since your reverence asked the mother for it, I ” 

“ It is an atrocious falsehood— a gipsy trick ! ” cried the canon, 
“ and I doubt not you are the confederates of this sorceress. Come 
—come— carry away the brat, give it to the mother, keep it yourself, 
do what you will with it. I wash my hands of it. It you want to get 
money out of me, you can have it. I never refuse money even to 
rogues and impostors; it is the only way by which to rid your house 
of them ; but as to taking a child into my house, as for me, you may 
all go to the devil ! ” 

“^Ah ! if it comes to that,” said the old woman, very decidedly, “ I 
will not do it, so may it not displease your reverence. I did not take 
charge of tlie child on my own account. As to being her confeder- 
ates, we know nothing of such tricks, and your reverence must be 
joking when you accuse us of imposture. I am very much your rev- 
erence’s servant, and I am going home. Wo have many pilgrims re- 
turning from the performance of a vow, who are very thirsty souls.” 

The old woman curtsied several times as she was going, and then 
returning on her steps, “ I was on the point of forgetting,” she said, 
“ the child is to be called Angela in Italian. Upon my word, I for- 
get how she spoke it.” 

“ Angiolina— Anzoleta ? ” asked Consuelo. 

“ The last— exactly so,” said the old woman, and again curtsying to 
the canon, she retired quietly. 

“ Well, what do you think of this trick?” asked the canon, when 

she was gone. ^ 

“ I think it perfectly in keeping with her who invented it, said 
Consuelo, taking the cliild, which was beginning to grow fretful, out 


396 


CONSUELO, 


of the basket, and feeding it gently with a spoonful or two of milk, 
which still continued warm in the canon’s china cup. 

“ This Gorilla is a demon, then, is she ? ” asked the canon ; “ do 
you know her? ” 

“ By reputation only ; but now I know her perfectly well, and you 
also, 1 think, Monsieur Canon.” 

“ And it is an acquaintance of which I had just as readily be free. 
But what are we to do with this poor little outcast? ” he added, cast- 
ing a glance of pity on the child. 

“ I will carry it,” said Consuelo, “ to your gardener’s wife, whom I 
saw yesterday nursing a fine little boy of five or six months old.” 

“ Go then,” said the canon, “ or rather ring the bell, and they will 
call her hither. She will tell us of a nurse in some neighboring farm ; 
not too near, however, for heaven only knows the injury which an 
evident interest in a ehild which falls from the clouds into his house 
may do to a man of any mark in the church.” 

“ Were I in your place. Monsieur Canon, I would set myself above 
all such wretched considerations. I would neither anticipate or listen 
to the absurd suppositions of calumny. I would live in the midst of 
fools and their conjectures as if they had no existence. I would act 
as if they were impossible. Of what use else were a life of dignity 
and virtue, if it cannot ensure calmness of conscience and the liberty 
of doing good? Lo! your reverence, this child is entrusted to you. 
If it be ill cared for out of your sight, if it languish, if it die, you will 
never, I think, cease to reproach yourself.” 

After many objections on the part of the canon, whose timidity and 
apprehensions of public opinion warped him from his better will, and 
many arguments on that of Consuelo, the latter becoming more en- 
thusiastic and energetic as the former began to yield, the point was 
carried. 

“ It is settled, then, your reverence/^ said Consuelo ; “ you will 
keep Angiolina in your own house, the gardener’s wife will nurse 
her, and hereafter you will educate her in religion and in virtue. Her 
mother would have made of her a very devil; you will make of her a 
heavenly angel.” 

“ You do what you will with me,” said the canon, moved to tender- 
ness, and suffering Consuelo to lay the child on his knees; “ we will 
baptise the child to-morrow. You shall be its godfather. Had 
Bridget remained here, we would have compelled her to be godmoth- 
er; her rage would have been amusing.” 

“As to Gorilla’s purse, — aye, indeed, it contains fifty Venetian 
sequins; we do not want it here. I charge myself with the present 
expenses and the future fortunes of the child, if it be not reclaimed. 
Take then this gold, it is well due to you, for the singular virtue and 
the great heart yon liave shown throughout all this.” 

“ Gold to pay my virtue and the goodness of my heart!*” cried Con- 
suelo, waving away the purse in disgust, “and Gorilla’s gold too! the 
price of falsehood and of infamy. Ah! Monsieur Catmn, it sullies 
our eyes. Distribute it among the poor, and it may so bring good 
fortune to our poor Angiolina.” 

For the first time perhaps in his life, the canon scarcely slept a 
wink. He felt a strange emotion and agitation within himself. His head 
was full of musical tones, of melodies, and modulations, which a slight 
doze interrupted every minute, and which, when at a minute’s end he 
again awoke, he sought to remember and re-connect, without wish- 


CONSUELO. 


897 

Ing to do so, and as it were in his own despite, without the power of 
doing so. After waking and sleeping, and waking again, and endeav* 
oring to sleep again, a hundred times in succession, a luminous idea 
struck him. He arose, took his writing desk, and resolved to work 
upon the famous book which he had so long undertaken, but never 
yet commenced. It was necessary for him to consult his dictionary 
of canonical law in order to set himself right on the subject; but he 
had not read two pages before his ideas became confused, his eyelids 
grew heavy, the book slid easily down from the desk to the carpet, the 
candle was put out by a sigh of delicious sleepiness, heaved from the 
powerful lungs of the good man, and he slept soundly and happily 
until ten o’clock in the morning. 

Alas! how bitter was his waking, when with a listless and lazy 
hand, he opened the following note, which Andrew laid upon his 
waiter beside his cup of chocolate. 

“ We are departing. Monsieur and Eeverend Canon. An imperious 
duty called us to Vienna, and we feared our inability to resist your 
generous solicitations. We are flying, as though we were ungrateful, 
but we are not so, and never shall we lose the memory of your hospi- 
tality toward us, and of your sublime charity toward the deserted child. 
We will come to thank you for it. Within a week you will see us 
again ; deign therefore to defer until then the baptism of Angiolina, 
and to count on the respectful and tender devotions of your humble 
proteges, “ Beetoni, Beppo.” 

The evening of the same day Consuelo and Joseph enter Vienna 
under favor of the darkness. Keller, the worthy wig-maker, was ad- 
mitted into their confidence, received them with open arms, and paid 
the utmost attention to the noble-hearted girl in her travelling disguise. 
Consuelo lavished all her kindness upon Joseph’s intended bride, 
though to her regret she found her neither graceful nor pretty. On 
the following morning, Keller braided Consuelo’s dishevelled hair; his 
daughter aided her to resume the apparel of her sex, and showed her 
the way to the house in which Porpora had installed himself. 


CHAPTER LXXXI. 

To the joy which Consuelo felt, as she clasped in her arms her mas- 
ter and benefactor, succeeded a sense of pain, which it was long before 
she could subdue. A year had elapsed since she had seen Porpora; 
and that year of uncertainty, annoyance, and vexation had left deep 
traces of age and distress on the brow of the master. He had gained, 
moreover, "that unhealthy fatness into which inaction and languor of 
the soul often cast organizations already beginning to give way. His 
eye had still its wonted brightness, and a certain exaggerated color on 
his cheeks betrayed fatal efforts to acquire, by means of wine, forget- 
fulness of his sorrows, or a return of inspiration, discouraged by age 
and disappointment. The luckless composer had flattered himself 
that he should recover at Vienna some chances of patronage and 
fortune. He had been received with cold esteem, and had found his 


398 


C () N S U E L O. 


rivals, more fortunate than himself, in the full tide of imperial favor 
and of public admiration. Metastasio had written dramas for Cala- 
dara, for Predieri, for Fuchs, for Reuter, for Hasse; Metastasio, the 
court poet, po6io Cesar eo, the writer of the day, the favorite of the 
muses and the ladies, the charming, the precious, the harmonious, the 
fluent, the divine Metastasio; in one word, he of the dramatic cooks, 
whose meats had the power of creating the surest appetite and the 
easiest digestion, had not written, and would not promise to write, 
anything for Porpora. The maestro it might be had still ideas; he 
had certainly science, thorough comprehension of voices, fine Neapol- 
itan methods, severe taste, expansive style, and proud and mascu- 
line recitations, the powerful and pompous beauty of which never has 
been equalled ; but he had no public, and therefore he asked in vain 
for a poem. He was neither flatterer nor intriguer; his somewhat 
rash frankness brought enemies upon him, and his ill humor dis- 
gusted every body. 

He even brought this last disqualification to bear on his reception 
of Consuelo. 

“ And why have you left Bohemia? What has brought you hither, 
unlucky child?” he said, after having embraced her tenderly; — 
“ hither, where there are neither ears nor hearts to comprehend you? 
There is no place for you here, my daughter. Your old master has 
fallen into contempt; and if you would succeed, you had better imitate 
the rest. Pretend not to know me, or to despise me, like all those 
who owe me their talents, their fortune and their glory.” 

“ Alas ! and do you doubt me too, my master? ” said Consuelo, whose 
eyes filled with tears. “ Would you deny my affection and devotion, 
and cast back upon me the suspicion and the scorn which others have 
infused into your soul? Oh ! my master! you shall see that I do not 
deserve this outrage. You shall see it. That is all I can say.” 

Porpora frowned darkly, turned his back upon her, walked two or 
three times up and down the room, returned to Consuelo, and finding 
nothing agreeable to say to her. took her handkerchief in his liands, 
drew it across her eyes with a sort of fatherly rudeness, saying, “ Come, 
come 1 ” Consuelo saw that he was pale, and that he was suppressing 
heavy sighs, by exertion of his chest, but he contained his emotion, 
and drawing a chair close to her — 

“ Come,” he said, “ tell me about your sojourn in Bohemia, and tell 
me why you came away so suddenly. Speak,” lie added, a little impa- 
tiently ; “ have you not a thousand things which you desire to tell me? 
Did you get tired yonder, or did the Rudolstadts treat you ill? Yes! 
I dare to say that they too are capable of having wounded and tor- 
mented your feelings. God knows that they were the only people in 
the world in whom I would have placed implicit trust; but God 
knows also, that all men are capable of every kind of evil.” 

“ Say not so, my friend ! ” replied Consuelo.— “ The Rudolstadts are 
angels, and I ought to speak of them only on my knees. But 1 was 
bound to leave them ; it was my duty to fly from them, and that even 
without letting them know it, or taking leave of them.” 

“ What do you mean ? Is it that you who have wherewithal to re- 
proach youiself as relates to them; must I blush for vou, and blame 
myself for having recommended you to those excellent people?” 

Oh ! no ! no ! God be pi aised, no ! my master. I have nothing 
with which to reproach myself, and you have nothing at which to 
blush for me.” 


CONSUELO. 


899 


“ What is it, then ? ” 

Consuelo, who well knew how necessary it was to give short and 
prompt answers when Porpora was giviog his attention to any fact or 
idea, related to him briefly, how Count Albert wished to marry her, 
and how she could decide on nothing until she had the advice of her 
adopted father. 

Porpora grinned with rage and indignation.— “ Count Albert,” he' 
cried, “ the heir of the Riulolstadts, the descendant of the old kings 
of Bohemia, the lord of Riesenberg! He marry you, the little gipseyl 
the ugly one of the school; girl without a father; the comedian with- 
out money or engagment! you, who have begged barefoot in the cross- 
streets of Venice! ” 

“Me, your pupil! me, your adopted daughter!” replied Consuelo, 
with an air of quiet pride ; “ Yes, me, la Porporina! ” 

“ Splendid dignity, and brilliant condition ! In truth,” said the maes- 
tro with a bitter sneer, “ I had forgotten that part of the nomenclature 
— the last and only pupil of a master without a school ; the future 
heiress of his rags and his dejection ; the continuer of a name already 
eflaced from the memory of men ! There is certainly something to 
boast of in this — something wherewith to turn the heads of young 
men of noble birth ! ” 

“ Apparently, master mine,” said Consuelo, with a melancholy and 
caressing smile; “ we have not fallen so low in the opinion of noble 
men, as you are pleased to imagine; for it is certain that the count 
wishes to marry me, and I have come hither to ask your permission, or 
your protection.” 

“ Consuelo,” replied Porpora, in a cold, harsh tone, “ I hate such 
absurdities as this. You ought to know that I detest boarding-school 
romances, and coquettish adventurers. Never would I have believed 
that you could have filled your head with such balderdash. You 
make me pity you; and if the old count — if the canoness — if the 
Baroness Amelia are informed of your pretensions, I say it to you 
once more, I blush for you.” 

Consuelo knew that it would not do to contradict the master when 
he was declaiming, or to interrupt him in the full swing of his ora- 
tion; she allowed him, therefore, to work off his indignation, and 
when he had said to her all the most wounding and unjust things he 
could think of, she related to him, point by point, everything that had 
passed at the Giants’ Castle, between herself. Count Albert, Count 
Christian, Amelia, the Canoness, and Anzoleto. 

“ You have done well then, Consuelo,” said Porpora at last; “you 
have been prudent, you have been good — you have been strong, as I 
expected you to be. It is well. Heaven has protected you, and will 
recompense you by delivering you, once for all, from that insolent 
Anzoleto. As to the young count, you must not think of him — I for- 
bid it. Such a fate is not suitable for you. The Count Christian will 
never permit you to become an artist again — rest assured of that. I 
know better than you do the indomitable pride of these nobles. Now, 
unless you hold illusions on that subject, which I should deem child- 
ish and senseless, I do not think you can hesitate an instant between 
the fortunes of the great, and the fortunes of a child of art. Answer 
me — what think you? By the body of Bacchus! one would say that 
you do not understand me.” 

“ I understand you very well, my master, and I perceive that you 
do not understand one word that I have spoken to you.” 


CONSUELO. 


400 

“What! I have understood nothing? I can understand nothing 
any longer — is not that what you mean? ” 

“ No, you have not understood me,” she replied very firmly. “ For 
you suppose me to be actuated by impulses ot ambition, w'hich have 
never entered my mind. I do not envy the fortunes of the great, be 
assured of that, my master; and never say that I suffered the consid- 
eration of them to influence my opinions. I despise advantages 
which are not acquired by our own merit. You educated me in that 
principle, and I know not how to recede from it. But there is some- 
thing in life besides vanity and wealth, and that something is precious 
enough to counterbalance the intoxication of glory, and all the joys 
of an artist’s life. That is the love of a man like Albert — that is do- 
mestic happiness — that is the joys of a family. The public is a ca- 
pricious, tyrannical and ungrateful master. If it should come to pass 
that I can love Albert as he loves me, I should think no more of glory, 
and probably I should be the happier therefore.” 

“ What absurd language is this? ” cried the maestro. “Have you 
become a fool? are you infected with German sentimentality? into 
how deep a contempt of art have you fallen, madam countess! But 
I will lose no more time in talking to a person who neither knows 
what she says nor what she wishes. You have no common sense, 
and I am your most obedient servant.” 

And with these words Porpora sat down to the piano-forte, and im- 
provised, with a firm, dry hand several scientific modulations, during 
which Consuelo, hopeless of bringing him back to the subject that 
day, refl-ected on the means of putting him into a better humor. She 
succeeded, by singing to him some of the national airs which she had 
learned in Bohemia, the originality of which, greatly delighted the 
old maestro. Afterward they dined together very frugally, at a lit- 
tle table near the window. Porpora was poorly lodged ; his dull and 
gloomy apartment looked out, always itself in disorder, on the angle 
of a narrow and deserted street. Consuelo, seeing that he was now 
in a good liumor, ventured to mention .Joseph Haydn to him. She 
told him, with an air of indifference, how she had met, when near to 
Vienna, a poor little devil, who had spoken of the school of Porpora 
with such respect and admiration that she had promised to intercede 
in his behalf with Poniora himself. 

“ Ah! and what is he, this young man?” asked the maestro; “ to 
what career does he aspire ? To be an artist, I presume, since he is a 
poor devil. Oh! I thank him greatly for his patronage. I will teach 
no one to sing henceforth who is not the son of a family. People of 
that kind pay well, learn nothing, and are proud of our lessons, be- 
cause they fancy that they know something when they have passed 
through our hands. But artists are .all cowards, all ungrateful , all 
liars and traitors. Let no one speak to me of them.” 

Consuelo strove in vain to divert him from these ideas; but finding 
ihem so obstinately fixed that there was no hope of removing them, 
she leaned a little way out of the window while the master’s back 
was turned, and made two successive signs with her fingers; the first 
was to indicate to Joseph, who was waiting in the street for that pre- 
concerted signal, that he must abandon all hope of being admitted a 
pupil of Porpora; the other told him not to make his appearance 
within half an hour. 

Consuelo then talked of other things, to make Porpora forget what 
she had been saying;- and at the end of half an hour Joseph knocked 


C O N S U E L O, 


401 


at the door. Consuelo opened it — affecting not to know him — and 
returned to the master, saying that it was a servant who wanted a 
place. 

“Let us see your face,” cried Porpora to the trembling youth; 
“who told you that I wanted a servant? I want nothing of the 
kind.” 

“ If you have no need of a servant,” said Joseph, a good deal dis- 
concerted, but keeping up a bold countenance as Cousuelo had advised 
him to do, “ it is very unlucky for me, monsieur, for I have great need 
of a master.” 

“ One would suppose, to hear you, that it is by my means only that 
you can earn your bread,” replied Porpora. “ Do you think I require 
a lackey to arrange all these things? ” 

“Yes, sir, 1 do indeed,” replied Haydn, affecting a sort of artless 
simplicity; “for everything is very much out of order.” 

As he said this he began at once to set himself to work, arranging 
tlie apartments so symmetrically and so cold-bloodedly, that he almost 
sat Porpora laughing. Joseph was, in fact, playing to win or lose ; for, 
in truth if his zeal had not pleased the maestro he might well have got 
paid by a caning. 

“ Here is a queer genius, who will serve me, w'hether I will or no!” 
said Porpora, watching him. “ 1 tell you, idiot, that I have not the 
means of paying a servant. Do you still continue so eager? ” 

“ Oh ! as for that, monsieur, if you will only give me your old clothes, 
and a morsel of bread every day, 1 shall be very happy. 1 am so mis- 
erable, that I should be happy not to have to beg my bread.” 

“ But why do you not enter into some rich family? ” 

“ It is impossible, monsieur, they say that I am too little and too 
ugly. Besides, I know nothing of music, and you know all the great 
noblemen like their lackeys to know how to play a little part on the 
Ante or on the violin w’hen they have music in their rooms, which, as 
for me, 1 have never been able to force a note of music into my head.” 

“Ah! indeed, you know nothing of music, hey? Well, yon are 
Just the man I want. If you aie satisfied with food and old clothes 
I will take you; for, now that I think of it, my daughter will want a 
diligent boy to run on her errands. Come, what can you do? Brush 
clothes, polish shoes, sweep the room, open and shut the door? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, 1 can do all that.” 

“ Well then, begin. Prepare the coat which is lying on my bed, for 
I am going at one" o’clock to the ambassador’s. You shall accompany 
me, Consuelo. I will present yon to Monsieur Korner, whom you 
know already, and who has just arrived from the baths with the sig- 
nora. There is a little chamber there which I give to you; go and 
make a little toilette, while 1 prepare myself.” 

Consuelo obeyed, crossed the ante-chamber, entered the small dark 
cabinet which was to become her apartment and put on her old black 
frock and the little white kerchief, which had journeyed with her on 
Joseph’s back. 

“ This is not a very pretty toilette,” thought she to herself, “ in 
which to go to the ambassador’s; nevertheless they saw me begin in 
the same way at Venice, and it did not prevent me from singing well, 
and being listened to with pleasure.” 

When she was ready, she re-crossed the ante-chamber, and found 
Haydn there, gravely employed combing out Porpora’s wig, which 
stood on its block. It was with difficulty that they both stifled a 
25 


C O N S U E L O. 


402 

laugh. But as she heard Porpora approacliing, Consuelo became 
quite grave, and said as he entered, “Come! little one, make haste!’' 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 

It was not to the Venetian embassy, but to the Venetian ambassa- 
dor’s house, that is, to the house of his mistress, that Porpora now 
carried Consuelo. Wilhelmina was a beautiful creature, infatuated 
with music, and deriving her only pleasure, her only pretension, from 
gathering around her as many artists and dilettanti as she could, 
without compromising the diplomatic dignity of Monseigneur Korner 
by too public a display. At the appearance of Consuelo she uttered 
a little cry of pleasure, and wlieu fully satisfied tliat it was indeed 
Consuelo whom she saw before her, she received her Vith the utmost 
affection and good nature, as the Zingarella, the marvel of Saint Sam- 
uel’s in the last year. 

She had, at that time, mingled her voice with those of the genuine 
dilettanti to celebrate her success, and if she liad spoken in an anide 
against the pride and ambition of the little girl, whom she had known 
as the humblest and most obscure pupil of the scuola, and who after- 
wards refused to place her voice at the disposal of Madame the Am- 
bassadress in an aside, and absolutely in the ear of the listener. 

Now, however, when she saw Consuelo come to her, in the same 
quiet little dress she had worn of old, and when Porpora presented 
her officially, which he liad never done before, vain and light as she 
was, Wilhelmina overlooked all, and thought she was playing a part 
of superb generosity when she kissed the Zingarella on both clieeks. 
“ She is ruined,” thought she. “She has committed some folly; or, 
perhaps, she has lost her voice, for she has not been heard of this long 
time. She comes back at our merciful disposal; now, therefore, is the 
time to pity her, to protect her, and, if possible, to bring her talents 
forward to her advantage.” 

Consuelo’s manners were so gentle and conciliatory, that Wilhelmi- 
na, not discovering in her that tone of liaughty prosperity which slie 
had fancied to belong to her in Venice, felt quite at her ease with her, 
and loaded her with attentions. Some Italian friends of the ambas- 
sador’s united with her in almost overpowering Consuelo with praises 
and with questions, which latter she contrived merrily and adroitly to 
avoid. But, on a sudden her face became grave, and shewed a certain 
degree of emotion, when, in the midst of a group of Germans, who 
were looking at her with curious eyes, she recognised a face which 
had troubled her before. It was the stranger, the friend of the canon, 
who had examined her and questioned her so closely three days be- 
fore, at the house of the village curate, where she had sung the mass 
with Joseph Haydn. The stranger was now scrutinizing her with 
deep attention, and it was easy to see that he was questioning those 
who stood near him as to who she was. Wilhelmina perceived Con- 
suelo’s abstraction. — “ You are looking at M. Holzbaiier? ” said she. 
“ Do you know him ? ” 

“ I do not know him,” said Consuelo; “ and I was ignorant that it 
is he at whom I am looking.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


403 


“ He is the first to the right of the marble slab,” said the ambassa- 
dor’s lady. “ He is actually director of the court theatre, and his wife 
is the first cantatrice of the same theatre. And he makes a bad use 
of his position,” she added, in a low voice, “ in order to regale the 
court and the town with his own operas, which, between ourselves, 
are good for nothing. Would you like to make his acquaintance ; he 
is a very gallant person ? ” 

“A thousand thanks, signora,” replied Consuelo, “I am of too 
littleconsideration to be presented to any one: and I am well assured 
beforehand that he will not engage me for his theatre.” 

“ And wherefore not, my dear? Has that fine voice, which had not 
its equal in all Italy, suffered by your sojourn in Bohemia? for you 
have lived, as they tell us, all this time in Bohemia, the coldest and 
saddest country in the world. It is a very bad climate for the chest ; 
and I am not astonished at your feeling its bad effects; but you will 
soon recover it, under the influence of our fine Venetian sun.” 

Consuelo, seeing that Wilhelraina was determined to consider the 
loss of her voice as a settled affair, abstained from giving any further 
contradiction, the rather that Wilhelmina had herself both asked the 
question and returned the answer. She did not torment herself, how- 
ever, at all,' in consequence of this charitable supposition, but only on 
account of the antipathy which she was sure to encounter at the 
hands of Holzbaiier, in payment of the .somewhat abrupt and some- 
what over-sincere observations which had escaped her in regard to * 
his music at the breakfast at the parsonage. And Consuelo much 
feared that this adventure might reach the ears of Porpora, and en- 
rage him against herself, and yet more against poor Joseph. 

It was not so, however; Holzbaiier did not say a word of the adven- 
ture, for reasons which come to light hereafter; and, instead of show- 
ing the least animosity to Consuelo, he approached her and addressed 
her with glances full of real malignity, concealed under the guise of 
jovial kindness. She did not dare to ask him what was the secret of 
these ; and, let the consequences be what they might, she was too 
proud not to confront them with tranquillity. 

She was diverted from this incident by the face of a harsh, stern- 
looking old man, who nevertheless showed much eagerness to keep up 
a conversation with Porpora. But he, still faithful to his usual ill- 
Immor, scarcely replied to him, and at each word made an effort and 
sought a pretext for getting away from him. 

“ That,” said "Wilhelmina, who was not annoyed at having it in her 
power to give Consuelo a list of the celebrities which crowded her sa- 
loon — “ that is an illustrious master — that is the Buononcini. He has 
lately arrived from Paris, where he himself played a part on the vio- 
loncello, in an anthem of his own composition, before the king. You 
know that it is he who has been so long the rage in Loudon, and who, 
after an obstinate struggle of theatre to theatre against Handel, has 
succeeded in conquering him at the opera.” 

“ Do not say so, signora,” said Porpora, with vivacity, who had 
just got rid of Buononcini, and overheard Wilhehnina’s words. Oh, 
say not such blasphemy. No one has ever conquered Handel ! — no 
one will ever conquer him! I know my Handel, and you know him 
not as yet. He is the first among us all ; and I confess to you, that 
although I had the audacity to str/’ve with him in my extreme youth, 

I was crushed. It necessarily must have been so. It was just that it 
should be so. Buononcini, more fortunate, but neither more modest 


404 


CONSUELO. 


nor more skillful than I, triumphed in the eyes of fools, and in the 
ears of barbarians. Do not, therefore, believe those who talk to you 
of such a triumph as that. It will be the eternal ridicule of my 
fellow-artist Buononcini; and the English will one day blush at hav- 
ing preferred his operas, to those of a genius, of a giant such as 
Handel.” 

Wilhelmina endeavored to defend Buononcini, and contradiction 
having excited the wrath of Porpora, “ I tell you,” said he, without 
caring whether Buononcini heard him or not, — “ I tell you, I will 
maintain that Handel is superior even in opera to all the men of the 
past and of the present age. I will prove to you immediately. Sit 
down to the piano, Consuelo, and sing us the air which I will desig- 
nate to you.” 

“ I am dying with desire to hear this admirable Porporina,” replied 
Wilhelmina. “ But I implore you, let her not make her first debut 
here, in presence of Buononcini and M. Holzbauer, by playing the 
music of Handel. They could not be flattered by such a selection — ” 

“ I know that very well,” said Porpora, “ it is their living condem- 
nation — their sentence to death.” 

“ Well, if that be the case,” replied she, “ make her sing something 
of your own, master.” 

“ You know, without doubt, that to do so will excite no person’s 
jealousy ! But I desire that she sing Handel I I will have it so ! ” 

* “ Master, do not require me to sing to-day. I have just arrived 

from a long journey ” 

“ Certainly, it would be merely abusing her good nature, and I am 
sure I do not require it of her,” said Wilhelmina. “ In presence of 
the judges here collected, and especially of M. Holzbauer, the director 
of the imperial theatre, it would be compromising your pupil. Be- 
ware what you are doing.” 

“ Compromising her — what are you thinking about ? ” said Porpora 
abruptly — “ have I not heard her sing this morning, and do not I 
know whether she runs any risk of compromising herself in the pres- 
ence of these Germans?” 

This debate was fortunately interrupted by the arrival of a new 
comer, whom all the world made haste to welcome, and Consuelo, 
who had seen and heard this sharp-voiced, effeminate-looking man, 
with abrupt manners and a blustering voice, at Venice in her child- 
hood, although she now saw him grown old, faded, ugly, ridiculously 
curled, and dressed in the worst taste, like a superannuated Celadon, 
instantly recogtused him, so deep a memory had she retained of the 
incomparable, inimitable sopranisto majorano, named Caffarelli, or 
rather Caffariello, as he was called everywhere except in France. 

It was impossible to look upon a more impertinent coxcomb than 
Caffariello; the women had spoiled him by their caresses — the accla- 
mations of the public had turned his head. He had been so hand- 
some; or, to speak more correctly, so pretty in his youth, that he had 
made his appearance in Italy in female parts; but now that he was 
running hard on his fiftieth year, and he even seemed older than hn 
in truth was, as is frequently the case with sopranists, it was difficult to 
conceive how he could have enacted Dido or Galatea without a strong 
inclination to laugh. To make up for the effeminacy of his person, he 
gave himselfgreat swaggering airs, and at every assertion raised his clear 
soft voice, without having the power to change its tones. Neverthe- 
less, under all his extravagancies, and under all that excess of vanity, 


C O N S U E L O, 


405 

Caffariello still had his good side. He felt the superiority of his tal- 
ents too much to be amiable; but he felt also the dignity of his posi- 
tion as an artist too highly ever to sink into the courtier. He held 
front obstinately and madly to the most important persons, even to 
sovereigns themselves, and on that account, he was odious to the low- 
bred flatterers whom his impertinence rebuked so severely. The true 
friends of art pardoned him everything, in consideration of his genius 
as a virtuoso ; and despite all the acts of cowardice which were laid 
to his charge as a man, it was undeniable that there were many fea- 
tures worthy of remark in his life — features of courage and generos- 
ity, as an artist. 

On entering, Caffariello bowed very slightly to the whole assembly, 
but went up and kissed the hand of Wilhelmina, tenderly and respect- 
fully, after which he addressed Holzbaiier, his director, with the man- 
ner of a protector, and shook hands with his old master, Porpora, with 
careless familiarity. Divided between indignation at his manners, and 
the necessity of humoring him — for by asking the theatre for an 
opera of his, and playing the first part, Caffariello had it in his power 
to give completely a new turn to the maestro’s fortunes, Porpora be- 
gan to compliment him, and to question him on his triumphs in a 
tone of railery too delicate for the comprehension of his mind, thor- 
oughly impregnated with coxcombry. 

He fell accordingly into a strain of the most impertinent rhodo- 
montade, in which Porpora encouraged and led him insidiously on- 
ward, until the whole company were laughing in their sleeves. At 
last, however, perhaps suspecting that he had gone too far, he sud- 
denly changed the subject. “Well! maestro,” said he to Porpora, — * 
“ have you brought out many pupils of late in Venice? Have you 
produced any who gave you much hope?” 

“Speak not of them to me. Since you, my school has been barren. 
The Lord made man, and he rested. So soon as Porpora had pro- 
duced Caffariello, he crossed his arms, and thenceforth his work was 
ended. 

“ Good master,” cried Caffariello, charmed by the compliment, 
which he took perfectly in good part, “ you are too indulgent to me. 
You had, however, some pupils in the Scuola Dei Mendicanti, who 
promised a good deal. You produced the little Corilla, for whom the 
public had a little fancy. A handsome creature, upon my honor! ” 

“ A very handsome creature, and nothing more.” 

“ Keally, nothing more ? asked M. Holzbaiier, whose ears were ever 
open.” 

“ Nothing more, I tell you,” replied Porpora, in a tone of authority. 

“ It is well to know that,” said Holzbaiier, in a whisper in his ear. 

“ She arrived here yesterday evening, and, as I am told, very sick ; but 
for all that I received propositions from her this morning for an en- 
gagement at the court theatre.” 

“ She is not what you want,” answered Porpora. “ Your wife sings 
ten times better than she.” 

“ I thank you for your advice,” said the director. 

“What? and no other pupil over and above the plump Corilla? ” 
resumed Caffariello. “ Venice is pumped dry then ? I had a fancy to 
go there in the spring with Tesi.” 

“And why not?” 

“ Tesi is fixed on Dresden. Shall I not then find a kitten to mew in 
Venice? I am not difficult, neither is the public, when it has aprimo 


CONSUELO, 


406 

nomo of my capacity to take the whole opera on his shoulders. A 
pretty voice, with intelligence and docility, will be all I should require 
for the duets. Ah ! by the way, maestro, what did you do with a little 
yellow-faced thing I saw with you ? ” 

“ I have taught many little yellow-faced things.” 

“ Oh ! but she, I mean, had a prodigious voice, and I recollect that 
I said to myself, as 1 l>eard her—” Here is an ugly little girl that will 
make a hit. I even amused myself by singing something with her. 
Poor little girl, she cried for admiration.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! ” said Porpora, looking at Consuelo, who blushed as red 
as the maestro’s nose. 

” What the devil was her name?” resumed Caffarielo. “An out- 
of-the-way name. Come, master, you must recollect her; she was as 
ugly as all the devils.” 

“ That was I,” said Consuelo, who got over the embarrassment, 
frankly and good-humoredly, and advanced merrily and respectfully 
toward Caifariello. 

Caifariello was not put out so easily. “ You ? ” said he, jestingly, as 
he took her by the hand, — ” You are telling a fib, for you are a very 
handsome girl, and she of whom I speak ” 

“ Oh ! it was really I,” said Consuelo. “ Look at me well, and you 
cannot but remember me. Oh ! I am the same Consuelo.” 

“ Consuelo! yes, that was her devilish name. But I do not recol- 
lect you in the least, and I am afraid they have changed you. My 
child, if in gaining beauty you have lost your voice and the talent 
which you foreshadowed, you would have better done to remain 
• ugly.” 

” I want you to hear her,” said Porpora, who was eager that Holz- 
baiier should hear his pupil. And he pushed Consuelo toward the 
harpsichord somewhat in spite of herself; for it was long since she 
had played before a learned auditory, and she was not prepared to sing 
to-night. 

“You are mystifying me,” said Caifariello. “It is not the same 
whom I saw in Venice.” 

“You shall judge,” replied Porpora. 

“ Really, maestro, it is cruelty to make me sing when I have fifty 
leagues of dust in my throat,” said Consuelo timidly. 

“ Never mind that ! Sing ! ” said the maestro. 

“ Be not afraid of me, my child,” said Caifariello, “ I know what 
indulgence the circumstances require, and to prevent your being afraid 
of me, I will sing with you if you please.” 

“ On that condition, I will obey,” she answered, “ and the pleasure 
I shall have in hearing you will prevent me thinking of myself.” 

“ What can we sing together ? ” said Caifariello to Porpora. 
“ Choose a duet for us.” 

“ Choose for yourself,” said Porpora ; “ there is nothing she cannot 
sing with you.” 

“ Well then, something of your own composition, maestro; I wish 
to give you pleasure to-day, and besides I know that the Signora Wil- 
helmina has all your music bound up and gilded with oriental 
luxury.” 

“ Yes,” grumbled Porpora between his teeth; “ my works are more 
richly clad than I.” 

Caifariello took up the music books, turned the leaves and chose a 
duet from Eumenea, an opera which Porpora had written at Rome 


C O N S U E L O. 


407 


for Farinelli. He sang the first solo with that grandeur, that perfec- 
tion, that mastery, which caused all his absurdities to be forgotten on 
the instant, and his excellences only to be reineinbered and enthusi- 
astically admired. Consuelo felt herself reanimated and revivified by 
the power of that extraordinary man ; and she, in her turn, sang her 
female solo, better perhaps than she had ever sung in her life. Caffa- 
riello did not wait till she had ended, but interrupted her several 
times by explosions of applause. “ Ah ! Cara ! ” he cried several times, 
“ now indeed I recognise you. You are indeed the marvellous child I 
heard in Venice, but now Figlia mia, tiiu sei un portento, and it is 
Caffariello tells you so.” 

Wilhelmina was a little surprised, perhaps a little disconcerted at 
finding Consuelo even more powerful than at Venice, but made never- 
theless the most of her admiration. Holzbaiier always smiling and 
admiring, preserved a diplomatic reserve in regard to an engagement. 
Buononcini declared that Consuelo surpassed both Madame Hasse, 
and Madame Cuzzoni; and the ambassador went into such transports 
that Wilhelmina appeared frightened — especially when she saw him 
take off a great sapphyr from his own finger to place it on that of 
Consuelo, who scarce knew whether to accept or refuse it. The duo 
was furiously encored, but the door opened and the servant announc- 
ed with respectful solemnity M. le Comte de Hoditz. All the world 
rose with a common instinct of respect, not to the most illustrious, 
not to the best, but to the richest. 

“ 1 must be very unlucky,” thought Consuelo within herself, “ to 
meet here suddenly and unexpectedly, and without an opportunity of 
saying a word in private with them, two persons who saw me on my 
journey with Joseph, and who must naturally have formed a bad 
opinion of my morals and of my relations with him. It matters not, 
honest and worthy Joseph; at the risk of all the calumnies which 
they may raise up against me, 1 will never disavow you either by 
word or in heart.” 

Count Hoditz, all blazing with embroideries of gold, advanced to- 
ward Wilhelmina, and by the manner in which he kissed her hand, 
Consuelo easily perceived the difference between such a mistress of a 
house and the proud patricians she had seen at Venice. 

Consuelo was soon called upon to sing again, she was cried up 
to the skies, and she literally shared with Caflariello the honors of the 
evening. At every moment, however, she expected to be approached 
by Count Hoditz, and to be compelled to bear the brunt of some 
malicioits joke. But strange to say. Count Hoditz never once came 
near the piano, toward which she endeavored to turn herself so that 
he should not see her features; and when he had once asked her 
name and age, he did not appear even to have heard of her before. 
The fact is, he had never yet rece-ived the imprudent letter, which in 
her traveller’s audacity she had addi essed to him by the wife of the de- 
serter. He had, besides, a very indifferent sight, and as it was not 
then the fashion to make use of glasses in a crow’ded assembly, he but 
very vaguely distinguished the pale face of the cantatrice. Jt will 
perhaps appear strange that such a maniac for music as he pretended 
to be, should have felt no curiosity to see so remarkable a virtuoso 
nearer at hand. 

It must be remembered that this Moravian lord admired only mu- 
sic of his owm composition, his own style, and his own singers. He 
had no sympathy with great talents; he loved on the contrary to beat 


CONSUELO. 


408 

them down in their estimate of tlieir value, and in their pretensions; 
and when he was told that Faustina Bordoni was making 50,0(XJ 
francs per annum in London, and Farinelli 150,000, he was wont to 
shrug his shoulders and say, that he had singers of his own perform- 
ing at his own theatre of Roswald, in Moravia, for 500 francs a year, 
who were worth Farinelli, Faustina, and M. Caflfariello into the bargain, 
the latter being especially insupportable to him — indeed, his very antip- 
athy, for the simple reason, that in his own splie-re and style, M. Ho- 
ditz had precisely the same absurdities and affectations as the singer. 

He whispered and tittered therefore with Wilhelmina, during the 
last piece which Consuelo sang; and then, seeing Porpora shooting 
furious glances at him, went out quickly, having enjoyed no pleasure 
in the company of these pedantic and badly instructed musicians. 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

CoNSUEL-o’s first movement on returning to her room, was to write 
to Albert; but she soon found that it was by no means as easy to do 
this as she had at first imagined. In her first hurried ideas she began 
to relate to him all the incidents of her journey, when a fear came 
over her that she was in danger of moving him too deeply by the pic- 
ture of her fatigues and dangers, which she was thus setting before 
his eyes. She remembered the sort of delirious fury into which he 
had fallen when she had told him, in the cavern, the terrors which 
she had confronted in coming to find him. She tore the letter; and 
then imagining that to a mind and organiz/rtion such as his, a single 
and dominant idea, clearly expressed, was the most needful, she set to 
work again. 

But again, what had she to announce to Albert? What could she 
promise or affirm to him anew? Was she not in the same state of 
irresolution, in the same alaim. as at her departure from the castle? 
If she had come for refuge to Vienna rather than elsewhere, wa,s it 
not to seek the protection of the only legitimate authority she had to 
recognise in life? Porpora was her benefactor, her father, her sup- 
porter, her master, in the most religious acceptation of the word. 
Near him she felt herself an orphan no longer; she did not even ad 
mit the right as possessed by her of disposing of herself, following the 
inspiration of her heart or her reason only. Now Porpora blamed the 
idea of a marriage which he regarded as a murder of genius, as the 
immolation of a great destiny at the shrine of a romantic devotion. 
He railed at it, and rejected it with all his energies. At Riesenberg 
also, there was an old man, generous, noble, and tender, who offered 
himself as a father to Consuelo ; but can one change fathers under 
the exigency of circumstances, and when Porpora said wo, could Con- 
suelo accept the yes of Count Christian ? ” 

She began again, and tore up the beginnings of twenty letters, 
without being able to satisfy herself with one. In whatever style 
she set out, she found herself at every third word making some rash 
assertion, or manifesting some doubt, either oT which might have had 
consequences the most fatal. At last she weiP to bed, perfectly worn 
out with weariness, vexation and anxiety, and suffered there for a long 


C O N S U E L O. 


409 


time from cold an 1 sleejilessness, without being able to arrive at any 
resolution, at any clear conception of her future destiny. At length, 
she fell asleep, and remained in bed late enough to allow Porpora 
who was a very early l iser, to get out of the way on his round of visits. 
She found Haydn occupied as the day before, arranging the furniture 
and brushing the clothes of his new master. “Come tlien, fair sleep- 
er,” said he. as he saw his friend appear, “ I am dying of ennui, of 
sadness, atid more than all, of fear, when I do not see you, my guar- 
dian angel, between myself and that terrible man. He seems always 
to be discovering my intentions, to be on the point of turning my 
stratagems against myself, of shutting me up In his old harpsichord, 
in order to kill me, by harmonious suffocation. He makes my hair 
stand up on my head, does your Porpora! and I cannot persuade my- 
self, that he is not an old Italian devil; the Satan of that country be- 
ing admitted to be much more wicked and much shrewder than ours 
here at home.” 

“ Comfort yourself, my good friend,” said Consuelo, “ our master is 
not unkind, he is only unhappy. Let us begin by exerting all our 
cares to give him a little happiness, and we shall soon see him soften, 
and return to his natural character. Come, Beppo, let us go to work, 
so that when he returns he shall find his poor home somewhat more 
comfortable than it has been to him of late. First, I am going to ex- 
amine his clothes, to see what is wanting.” 

“ What is here will not take long to count,” said Joseph, “ and it is 
very easy to be seen ; for I never knew a wardrobe, unless it were ipy 
own. poorer,. or in worse condition.” 

“ Well, I shall see to renovating yours also, Joseph, for I also am a 
debtor to you. You fed me and clothed me all along our journey. 
But let us think first of Porpora. Open that closet. What! only one 
coat? — that which he wore last night at the Ambassador’s? ” 

“ Alas ! that is all. A maroon-colored coat, with cut steel buttons, 
and not very fresh either. The other, which he put on to go out, is 
so dilapidated and shabby, that it is a pity to look at it. As to a 
dressing-gown, I know not if such a thing ever existed, but I have 
been searching for it in vain for an hour.” 

Consuelo and Joseph renewed their search, and soon found that 
Porpoi-a’s dressing-gown was an imaginary article ; and when count 
was taken of his shirts, there were but three, and those in utter ruin, 
and so with all the rest. 

“ Joseph,” said Consuelo, “ here is a handsome ring which was 
given to me yesterday in payment of my songs. 1 do not like to sell 
it. for that would draw attention to me, and, perhaps, indispose peo- 
ple toward me, on account of my cupidity. But I could offer it in 
pledge, and bonow on it what money is necessary to us. Keller is 
honest and intelligent; he will know well what price to set on that 
jewel, and will surely know some usurer, who, taking it in pledge, 
will advance me a good sum on it. Go quickly, and return.” 

“ It will not be long doing,” replied Joseph. “ There is a sort of 
jeweller, an Israelite, who lives in Keller’s house; and as the latter is 
a sort of factotum for secrets of that kind to many a noble ladv, he 
will easily get you the money within an hour; but I will have nothing 
for mvself Do you hear, Consuelo ? You yourself, vvhose baggage 
travelled so far on my shoulder, are in great need of a better toilet, 
and you will have to appear to-morrow in a gayer dress than that.” 
“We will settle our accounts hereafter and according to my taste, 


CONSUELO. 


410 

Beppo. Not having refused your services, I have the right to force 
mine upon you. Now run to Keller’s.” 

In a word, within an hour Haydn returned with Keller and 1,.500 
florins, and Consuelo having explained her wishes, Keller went out 
and brought a friend of his, a tailor, whom lie reported to be discreet 
and expeditious, and who, having measured Porpora’s coat and other 
garments, engaged to produce within a few days two other complete 
suits, a good wadded dressing-gown; and as for linen and other neces- 
saries for the toilet, he promised to order them of a workman whom 
he could recommend. 

“Now tlien, signora,” resumed Joseph, who, unless when they 
were tete-a-tete, had the good taste to speak very ceremoniously to his 
friend, so that no one should form a false idea of tlie nature of their 
friendship, “ Will you not now think of yourself? You brought 
hardly anything with you from Bohemia; and what is more, your 
clothes are not in the fashion of this country.” 

“ I was on the point of forgetting that important affair. Good Mr. 
Keller must again be my counsellor and my guide.” 

“ Ah ! indeed,” said Keller, “ there I am in my own line, and if I 
do not get you up a dress in the best taste, call me a presuming igno- 
ramus.” 

“ I commit myself to you, my good Keller. Only I tell you that in 
general I have a simple taste, and that things suiting, strong colors 
neither suit my habitual paleness, nor my simple fancy.” 

“ You do me injustice, signora, in supposing that I require the in- 
formatioi: Is it not my profession to know what colors must be as- 
sorted to what faces, and do I not see in your face the expression of 
your natural disposition ? Be at your ease, you will be satisfied with 
me, and very soon you shall be in readiness to appear at court, if you 
desire it, without ceasing to be as simple and as modest as you now 
appear. To adorn the figure without changing it, is the true art of 
the hairdresser, as well as of the costumer.” 

“ Yet one word in your ear, good Monsieur Keller,” said Consuelo, 
moving the wig-maker away from Joseph. “ Will you have Master 
Haydn newly dressed from head to foot? With the remainder of the 
money, you will purchase a handsome silk frock for your daughter, to 
wear on her wedding day. I hope it will not be far distant; for if I 
have success, I may be useful in aiding our friend to make himself 
known. For he has talent — much taleiit, I can assure you.” 

“ Has he really, signora? I am very happy at what you tell me, for 
I always suspected it. What do I say? I was sure of it from the 
first day, when I heard him sing in the school as a little child.” 

“ He is a noble youth,” said Consuelo, “ and you will one day be 
recompensed by his gratitude and faith towards you, for all that you 
have done for him; for you also. Master Keller, are, I well know, a 
worthy man, and of a generous heart. Now tell me,” said she, draw- 
ing nearer to him, “ have you done what we agreed upon concerning 
Joseph’s patrons? The idea was yours,— have you put it in execu- 
tion ? ” 

“ Indeed I have, signora,” replied Keller. “ To say and to do are 
the same thing with your humble servant. As I waited on my cus- 
tomers this morning, I first mentioned it to monseigneur, the Vene- 
tian Ambassador — I have not the honor of waiting on himself, but I 
flress his secretary’s hair— and then to the Abbe Metastasio, and to 
Mademoiselle Martinez, his pupil, whose head is also under my care. 


CONSUELO. 


411 

I shall persist, by one means or other, in making it known to all my 
customers; and after that, I will make customers, in order to make it 
known yet further, till there shall be no danger of its reaching the 
ears of Master Porpora.” 

“ If I were a queen, I would instantly nominate you my ambassa- 
dor,” replied Consuelo, “ but I see the maestro coming — make your 
escape, good Master Keller, so that he may not see you.” 

“And why should I escape, signora? I will begin dressing your 
hair, and it will be thought that you sent for the first hairdresser by 
your valet, Joseph.” 

“ He has a thousand times more sense than we,” said Consuelo to 
Joseph, and she abandoned her black hair to his delicate fingering, 
while Joseph resumed his apron and dusting brush, and Porpora 
slowly ascended the stairs, humming a phrase of his forthcoming 
opera. 


CHAPTER LXXXIV. 

As he was very absent by nature, Porpora did not even observe, as 
he kissed his adopted daughter on the forehead that Keller was hold- 
ing her hair, and he set to work immediately hunting among bis music 
for the manuscript of the phrase which was running in his head ; but 
on perceiving his papers, which were ordinarily scattered at random 
over the top of the harpsichord, arranged in symmetrical files, be at 
once recovered his full powers of observation. 

“ The miserable devil ! ” he exclaimed, “ he has presumed to touch 
my manuscript. This is ever the way with valets. They think they 
are arranging, when they are merely piling up! I had good cause, in- 
deed, that I must take a valet; this is the beginning of my misery.” 

“ Forgive him, master,” said Consuelo, “ your music was in absolute 
chaos.” 

“ It was, at least, a chaos in which I could find my way; I could get 
up in the night and find any part of my opera which I wanted, only 
by feeling my way. Now I know nothing about it any more. It will 
be a month before I shall be able to rearrange it.” 

“ No, master; you will find your way at once and without difficulty. 
It is I who am in fault, moreover; and although the pages were not 
numbered. I am sure I have put them all in their places. Look, I am 
sure you will read more easily in the music-book which I have made, 
than you could on the loose leaves, which a gust of wind might carry 
away at any moment.” 

“ A gust ot wind ! Do you take my room for the lagunes of Yen- 
ice?” 

“ If not a gust of wind, at least a wave of a broom.” 

“ And pray what business has anyone to sweep and dust my apart- 
ment? I have lived here fifteen days, and never have allowed any one 
to enter it.” 

“I percei%'ed as much,” said Joseph to himself. “ Well, master, 
you must pei-mit me to alter that habit altogether. It is unwhole- 
some to sleep in a room which is not aired and cleaned every day. I 
wdll take it on me to re-establish daily the disorder which you like 
after Beppo has arranged and swept everything.” 


412 


C () N S U E L O. 


“ Beppo — who is Beppo ? I know no Beppo.” ' 

“ Beppo — why that is he,” said Consuelo, pointing to Joseph; “ his 
name is so hard to pronounce that your ears would have been tor- 
tured by it every moment. I gave him the first Venetian name I 
thought of. Beppo is good, it is short, and it can be sung well to 
music.” 

“ As you will,” said Porpora, getting into a better humor, and be- 
ginning to turn over his music sheets, which he found arranged cor- 
rectly, and sewed up In a neat volume. 

“ Master, have you breakfasted ? ” asked Consuelo, whom Keller 
had now set at liberty. 

“ Have you breakfasted, yourself? ” asked Porpora, half anxiously, 
half impatiently. 

“ I have breakfasted ; and you, master? ” 

“ And that boy — ^^that — Beppo; has he eaten anything? ” 

“ He has breakfasted ; and you, master? ” 

“ Have you, then, found anything to eat here? I did not remember 
that I had any provisions.” 

“ We have breakfasted very well; and you, master? ” 

“ And you, master? — and you, master? — Go to the devil with your 
questions.” 

“ Master, you have not breakfasted ? ” 

“ Ah ! I see the devil has got into my house, and will never leave 
me at peace again. Come here, I pray you, aud sing me this phrase. 
Now, attention.” 

Consuelo approached the piano, and sung the phrase over and over 
again; while Keller, who was a dilettante of great force, stood at the 
other end of the room, comb in hand, listening with all his ears. The 
maestro, who was not content with this phrase, made her sing it over 
and over again, now dwelling on these notes, now on those, seeking 
the shade of tone which he had conceived, with a degree of obstinacy 
which could be equalled only by the patience and submission of Con- 
suelo. During this time, Joseph, at a sign from her, brought in the 
chocolate which she had prepared, while he went for Keller, and un- 
derstanding her intentions, set it down within reach of Porpora, 
without saying a word. Before long, as if mechanically, the master 
took it, poured it into a cup, and swallowed it eagerly; a second fol- 
lowed, reinforced by a goodly piece of bread and butter, and Consu- 
elo, growing a little impudent, said, as she saw him eat with pleasure: 

“ 1 knew very well, master, that you had not breakfasted.” 

“It is true,” said he, good-humoredly. “I believe I forgot it. I 
often do so when I am composing, and I know nothing till, in the 
course of the day, I feel spasms in my stomach.” 

“ And then you drink b?’andy.” 

“ Who told you that, little fool? ” 

“ I found the bottle, master.” 

“ Well, what is that to you ? You are not going to forbid me bran- 
dy, are you ? ” 

“Yes, I shall forbid you brandy. You were sober at Venice, and 
then you were well.” 

“ Yes, that is true,” said Porpora, sadly. “ I fancied that every- 
thing went wrongly there, and that everythitig would go on better 
here. However, all goes from ill to worse with me. Fortune, health, 
inspiration, everything!” — and he buried his head in his hands. 

“That is because you have not your good Venetian coffee, which 


C O N S U E I, O. 


413 


gives you so much strength and gaiety, and instea 1 of that, seek to 
Btiinulate yourself, like the Germans, with beer and brandy, which 
are killing you.” 

“ Ah ! this is still the truth. My good Venetian coffee was my 
great source of health, genius, inspiration. All that one drinks here 
makes one mad or stupid.” 

“ Well, master, resume your coffee.” 

“Coffee, here? I will not. It makes too much trouble; one must 
have a servant-woman, kitchen furniture to be washed — and that gets 
broken with a discordant crash in the middle of a harmony. No,"no. 
My bottle ” 

“ That gets broken, too. I broke it this morning putting it into the 
closet.” 

“ You broke ray bottle, hey. I don’t know what prevents me from 
breaking my cane over your head, you ugly little thing.” 

“ Pooh ! you have been telling me that these fifteen years, and you 
Lave never so much as given me a fillip yet.” 

“Chatterbox! Will you sing? Will you get me through this ac- 
cursed phrase? I do not believe you can sing it now, you are think- 
ing of so many other things this morning.” 

“You shall see if I do not know it by heart,” said Consuelo, closing 
the book abruptly, and then singing it as she thought it ought to run, 
that is to say, differently from Porpora’s mode of composition. 
Scarcely had she ended, before he started from his chair, clapping his 
hands and crying, “That is it! that is it! That is what I wanted to 
hit, and could not hit. How the devil did it come into your head? ” 

“ Is it not as you wrote it? Can it be that by chance I — no, no, it 
is your phrase.” 

“ No, cheat, it is yours,” said Porpora, who, in spite of his exces- 
sive vanity, was candor itself. “ No, it is yours. It is good, and I will 
turn it to my profit.” 

Consuelo then sang it over several times. Porpora wrote it down, 
and then clasping her in his arms, cried: 

“ You are the devil — I always thought you were the devil ! ” 

“ A good devil, believe me, master,” said Consuelo, smiling. 

Porpora, transported with joy, began to feel about under the table 
for the neck of his bottle; then, finding it was gone, he commenced 
drumming on the music desk, and, taking up the first thing he found, 
swallowed it. It was excellent coffee, which Consuelo had prepared 
at the same time with the chocolate, and which Joseph, at a sign 
from her, had just brought up almost boiling. “Oh! nectar of the 
gods! — oh! delight of the musician!” exclaimed Porpora. “What 
fairy has brought thee from Venice beneath her wing? ” 

“ The devil,” answered Consuelo. 

“You are an angel, a fairy, my poor child!” said Porpora, bending 
over his desk. “Poor imprudent children! you wish to comfort my 
sad life, but you know not what you do. I am devoted to desolation, 
and your cares will only make my lot the more deplorable when these 
few bright days shall have passed over.” 

“ I will never leave you,” cried Consuelo, “ never. I will always be 
your daughter and your servant.” 

Porpora buried his bald head among the leaves of his music-book, 
and burst into tears. 

For a few days after this Consuelo was kept within doors by a cold. 
She had travelled, thinly clad, with only a straw hat, without a cloak, 


414 


C 0 N S U E L O. 


and without a change of raiment, sleeping in the open ir at times, 
and always exposed to all the capricious changes of tlie atmosphere, 
without taking the slightest hoarseness; but now, immured in Porpo- 
ra’s gloomy lodgings, she felt the cold and discomfort paralyzing at 
once her energies and her voice. Porpora was desperately out of tem- 
per at this disappointment, for he knew that haste alone could pro- 
cure his pupil an engagement at the royal theatre; for Madame Tesi, 
who had been induced to go to Dresden, now seemed to hesitate, se- 
duced by the entreaties of Caffariello, and the brilliant offers of Holz- 
baiier, who was anxious to attach so brilliant an artist to his theatre. 
Gorilla, on the other h.and, who was recovering from her confinement, 
was intriguing for an engagement with such friends as she had among 
the directors, and boasted that she could be ready to appear on tho 
stage in a week if necessary; Porpora, of course, ardently desiring that 
Consuelo should obtain an engagement, both for her own sake and for 
that of his opera, which he hoped to get accepted through her instru- 
mentality. 

Consuelo, on the other hand, knew not how to resolve. To make 
an engagement would long defer the possibility of her union with 
Albert, would spread fear and consternation among the Kudolstadts, 
who certainly did not expect that she would reappear on the stage; 
but on the other hand to refuse, was to destroy the last hope of Por- 
pora — to give him another instance of that ingratitude from which he 
had suffered so deeply, in short, to deal him the last blow. Frighten- 
ed and annoyed by these two alternatives, she became melancholy, 
and although the strength of her constitution preserved her from any 
very serious indisposition, she was languid, low, and feverish, and 
often wished, as she sat shivering over the meagre fire, that a severe 
illness would solve the question, and spare her the responsibility of 
deciding. 

In the meantime, Porpora’s temper, which had expanded during 
those few days of brief sunshine, became gloomy, morose and unquiet 
so soon as he saw Consuelo, on whose efforts alone he depended, fall 
into dejection and irresolution. 

After often vainly endeavoring to bring the maestro to converse 
with her reasonably in regard to love and marriage, and finding that 
he could not endure even to hear of it, she at length resigned her- 
self to her fate, never mentioned the name of Albert, and "held her- 
self ready at any moment to sign whatever engagement Porpora 
should make for her. When she was alone with Joseph, however, 
she would often seek a solace by opening her heart to him ; and com- 
plaining of the strange nature of her destiny, which seemed, as it 
were, to compel her to sacrifice all the hopes, all the promptings of 
her heart, all her hopes of enjoying domestic happiness herself, and 
giving happiness to others, to the sterile pursuit of art— turning all 
her best feelings, her pity, her sympathy, her love of others, which 
she was thus compelled to immolate, into punishment and torture.” 

“ Were I you,” said Haydn, “ my poor Consuelo, I can only say that 
I would listen to the voice of my genius, and stifle that of my heart. 
But I know you now, and I know that you cannot do it.” 

“ No, I cannot, Joseph— and I feel that I never shall be able to do 
it. But see my misfortune— see how strangely my lot is complicated 
—do what I may, devote myself as I will, I cannot consecrate myself 
to one but I must abandon the other.” 

Then they fell into a long discussion as to the possi lility of recon- 


CONSUELO. 


41o 


filing Porpora to the marriage, on the one hand, and prevailing 
upon him to abandon the prosecution of liis art for the public, to 
leave the city, and dwell at ease in his old age with his adopted daugh- 
ter and his son-in-law, at the castle of the Giants'? But it was too 
evident to bear an argument, that the artistic independence, the high 
pride and haughty spirit of the old musician would revolt from the al- 
ternative, and reject the offer as an insult, or, if he should ti’y it for a 
few months, would get disgusted, and give it up iintnediately. 

On the other hand, to thinlv of introducing Count Albert into the 
follies and frivolities of artist life in Vienna, would, with his peculiar- 
ities of manners and aspect, be even more impossible; it appeared, 
therefore, that there was nothing to do but to resign herself, and let 
matters take their course. 

In the meantime, Consuelo and Joseph applied themselves steadily 
to increasing the comforts of the maestro. 

The furniture of his room was renovated, his wardrobe was entire- 
ly replaced, with so much skill and tact, that the maestro never dis- 
covered it, or if at any time suspected, he was easily diverted from it 
by some stratagem of Consuelo, who pretended constantly to be 
engaged in repairing his old clothes. 

“ Come, come,” said he one day, when he caught her mending a 
waistcoat. “ enough of this folly. An artist cannot be a workwoman, 
and I will not see you sitting here bent double with a needle in your 
hand all day. Do you want to damn me? ” 

“ You need not begin damning yourself, master,” said Consuelo, 
“ for my voice has come back to me.” 

“ Has it? ” replied the maestro. “ Then you shall sing to-day be- 
fore her Highness the Countess of Hoditz, Margravine of Bareith.” 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 

The dowager Margravine of Bareith, widow of the Margrave 
George William, born Princess of Saxe Weisenfeld, and afterward 
Countess of Hoditz, had been.” as men said, “ lovely as an angel.” 
But she was so much changed that it was necessary to study her fea- 
tures in order to discover even the relics of beauty. She was tall, 
and showed that she must once have had a fine figure ; in fact, she Irad 
caused the death of several children by procuring abortions, in order 
to the preservation of that very figure. Her face was very long, as 
was her nose also, and having been at some time frozen, which im- 
parted to it the color of beet root, it by no means improved her per- 
sonal appearance. Her eyes, long accustomed to exert authority, 
were large, well cut, and of a deep brown hue, but they were so much 
clouded that they had lost much of their vivacity. As she had no 
natural eyebrows, she wore false ones — very thick, and as black as ink. 
Her mouth, although large, was exquisitely formed, and had a most 
agreeable expression. Her teeth, as white as ivory, were perfectly 
regular; her complexion, though smooth and regular, was yellt)wish, 
deld and lifeless-looking. Her air would have been goon but for its 
affectation. She was the Lais of her century; but it was by her per- 
sonal appearance only that she had charmed, for as to wit, she had 
not so much as a shadow of it.” 


416 


C () N S U E L O. 


If this portrait appear to be drawn by too severe and cynical a 
hand, it does not come, dear reader, from the i)en of your author. It 
is, word for word, the composition of a princess celebrated for her 
misfortunes, her domestic virtues, her pride, and her malice — the 
Princess Wilhelmina. of Prussia, sister of Frederick the Great, wife 
of the hereditary prince, of the Margrave of Bareith, the nephew 
of our Countess Hoditz. She was certainly the greatest scandal-mon- 
ger that ever came of royal blood. But her portraits are for the most 
part drawn with a master hand, and it is difficult, as you read them, 
not to believe them correct. 

When Consuelo, with herhaii dressed by Kcdler, and attired, thanks 
to his care and zeal, with elegant simp. .ly. was introduced into the 
margravine’s drawing-room, she placed lierself by Porpora’s side, in 
the rear of a harpsichord, which had been set obliquely across an 
angle of the room, so as to be in the way of no person. No one had 
arrived as yet, so punctual was Porpora, and the servants had just 
done lighting the lamps. The maestro began to amuse himself by 
trying the piano, and had scarcely elicited a few sounds from it before 
a very handsome lady entered the room, and came up to him with 
much affability and grace. As Porpora bowed to her with the utmost 
respect, and addressed her as princess, Consuelo took her for the 
margravine, and, according to usage, kissed her hand. The cold, wan 
hand which she had taken pressed that of the young artist with such 
cordiality as is rarely exhibited by the great, and Consuelo’s affections 
were gained on the instant. The princess appeared to be about thirty 
years of age; her form was elegant without being correct, and certain 
faults might be observed in it, which seemed to be the result of phys- 
ical sufferings. The expression of her face was admirable; but she 
was so lamentably pale, and showed such traces of overpowering 
grief, that her charms were all prematurely faded. 

Her dress was exquisite, but simple and decorous, almost to the 
verge of severity. A character of kindness, modesty, and sadness 
was legible in every feature of her fine face, and the sound of her 
voice had something in it so tender and so touching, that Consuelo 
was deeply affected. 

Before she had found time, however, to convince herself that this 
was not the margravine, the real margravine made her appearance. 
She had at this time passed her fiftieth year, and if the portrait affixed 
to the head of this chapter, which had been written ten years, was 
then a little overcharged, it was certainly so no longer when Consu- 
elo saw her. It now needed indeed a large stock of credulity and 
good-nature to believe that the Countess Hoditz had been one of the 
beauties of Germany, although she was dressed and painted to the 
acme of skill and coquetry. The rotundity of advanced years had 
ruined the figure, concerning which, it would seem, that the margra- 
vine still cherished strange illusions, for her bare shoulders and bust 
were displayed as proudly as though they still possessed the symmetry 
of an antique statue. Her head was dressed with flowers.'feathers, 
and diamonds, like that of a young woman, and her dress was one 
blaze of jewelry. 

“ Mamma,” said the princess, who had caused Consuelo’s error, 
“ this is the young lady whom Maestro Porpora promised to introduce 
to us, and who is about to give us the pleasure of hearing the fine 
music of his new opera.” 

“ That is no reason,” replied the Margravine, measuring Consuelo 


CONSUELO. 


41T 

from head to foot, “ why you should hold her by the hand. Go, and 
take a seat near the harpsichord, mademoiselle ; I am very glad to see 
you; you will sing to us when the company shall arrive. I make you 
my salutations, Master Porpora; but you must pardon me, if I seem 
to neglect you, for I see that something is wanting to my toilet. My 
daughter, talk a little to Master Porpora, he is a man of talent whom 
I esteem.” 

Having uttered these words, with a voice as hoarse as that of a 
common soldier, the margravine turned heavily on her heel, and re- 
turned to her own apartments. Scarcely had she disappeared before 
the princess, her daughter, returned to Consuelo, and took her hand 
again, with delicate and touching kindness, as if to assure her that 
she, at least had no sympathy with her mother’s impertinence; then 
she entered into conversation with her and Porpora, and manifested 
an interest in her, full, at once, of simplicity and grace, Consuelo was 
the more moved by this courtesy and kindness that, when several 
persons had been introduced, she remarked a degree of coldness, and 
a reserve, half timid and half haughty, in the manners of the princess, 
which she had evidently laid aside in her conduct toward herself and 
the maestro. When the saloon was nearly full, the Count Hoditz, 
who had dined abroad, entered the drawing-room in full dress; and, 
as if he had beer, a stranger in his own house, went up and kissed the 
hand of his noble wife, with an air of the greatest respect, and en- 
quired after her health; for the margravine affected to be exceedingly 
delicate, lay half extended on her sofa, smelling, every moment, some 
sovereign remedy against vapors, and receiving the homage of her 
guests with an air which she intended to be languishing, but which 
was only disdainful. In fact she was so consummately ridiculous, that 
Consuelo, who was at first irritated and indignant at her insolence, at 
last began to be amused at her expense, and to plan a merry laugh as 
she should describe her to Beppo. 

“ The princess had drawn near to the harpsichord, and never missed 
an opportunity of addressing a word or a smile to Consuelo, when- 
ever she could do so without attracting the attention of her mother. 
This situation gave Consuelo an opportunity of witnessing a little do- 
mestic by-play, which gave her, in some sort, the key to what was 
passing in the menage. Count Hoditz approached his daughter-in-law, 
took her hand, raised it to his lips, and held it there for some time, 
with an expressive look. The princess withdrew her hand, and spoke 
a few coldly deferential words to him. The count did not listen to 
them, but still gazing on her eagerly, “ What! my fair angel,” he said, 
“always sad, always austere, always cuirassed to the chin! One 
would suppose you were going to turn nun.” 

It is very possible,” replied the princess, in a low voice, “ that 1 
flay end by doing so. The world has not so treated me as to give me 
.jiy deep attachment to its pleasures.” 

“ The world would adore you and would be at your feet, if you did 
uot affect to hold it at a distance. And as to the cloister, how can 
you dream of such a horror, at your age, and with yonr beauty? ” 

“ At a much more smiling age, and with beauty which 1 possess no 
longer, I endured the horror of a far more rigorous captivity. Have 
you forgotten it? — But speak to me no longer. Monsieur le Comte, for 
mamma is looking at you.” 

As she spoke, the Count started away from his daughter-in-law as 
if he had boen touched by a spring, and drew near to Consuelo. tc 
26 


CONSUELO. 


418 

whom he bowed very gravely. Then having spoken a few words to 
her, en amateur, concerning music in general, he opened the music 
book which Porpora had laid on the harpsichord, and pretending to be 
looking for some particular piece which he wished her to explain to 
him, leaned over the desk and thus addressed her in a very low voice. 
“ I saw the deserter yesterday morning,” he said, “ and his wife de- 
livered a note to me. I request the fair Consuelo to forget a certain 
meeting, and in return for her silence, I will forget a certain Joseph 
whom I have just seen in my antechamber.” 

“ That certain Joseph,” replied Consuelo, whom the discovery of 
the jealousies and conjugal constraints of the family rendered very 
secure concerning the results of the meeting at Passau,“isan artistof 
great talents, who will not remain long in an antechamber. He is 
my companion, my friend, almost my brother — I have nothing to 
blush at, nothing wliich I wish to conceal on that head ; and all that 
I have to ask of the generosity of your lordship is a little indulgence 
for my voice, and a little protection for Joseph on his future debut on 
a musical career.” 

“ My interest is secured to the said Joseph, as my admiration is al- 
ready secured to your beautiful voice, but I flatter myself that a cer- 
tain jest on my part was never supposed to be serious.” 

“ I never had the folly to suppose it so. Monsieur le Comte; besides 
which, I well know, that a woman has no reason to be vain of being 
made the subject of a jest of that nature.” 

“That is enough, signora,” said the count, of whom the dowager 
never lost sight "for a moment, and who was now anxious to choose 
another listener, in order to avoid giving her umbrage. “ The cele- 
brated Consuelo should know how to pardon something to the gaiety 
of a journey in pleasant society, and she may count in future on the 
respect and devotion of Count Hoditz.” 

He replaced the music-book on the piano, and advanced obsequi- 
ously to receive a person who had been just announced, with the 
most pompous respect. He was a little man, who looked like a 
woman in disguise, so rosy was he, so curled, so perfumed, so delicate, 
and so graceful; it was he of whom Maria Theresa used to say, that 
she sliould like to have him set in a ring; it was he of whom siie also 
said, that she had made a diplomatist, because she could make noth- 
ing better of bim. He was the plenipotentiary of Austria, the first 
minister, the favorite — some went so far as to say the lover of the em- 
press; he was, in a word, no other than the illustrious Kaimitz, who 
held in his white hand, glittering with its many-colored ornature of 
rings, all the puissant clues of European policy. 

He seemed to be listening very gravely to persons who affected to be 
grave, and who were struggling to entertain him with grave topics; 
but on a sudden he interrupted himself to ask Count Hoditz. “ Who 
is that, whom I see there at the harpsichord ? Is that the little girl 
they spoke to me about — Porpora’s protegee? That poor devil, Por- 
pora! I wish I could do something for him; but he is so exacting and 
so fantastical that all the artists fear or hate him. When one speaks 
of him to them, it is to show them the head of Medusa. He tells one 
that he sings false — another that his music is worthless— a third that 
he owes all his success to intrigue — and then, he expects while using 
this Huron language, that people will listen to him, and do him jus- 
tice. What the devil ! we don’t live in the woods. Frankness is out 
of fashion, and we can no longer lead men by the truth. She is not 


C () N S U E L O. 


419 


BO bad, however, that little thing; I like her face. She is very young, 
is she not? They say she had great success in Venice. Porpora 
must bring her to me to-morrow.” 

“ He is very anxious,” said the princess, “ that you should obtain 
her a hearing from the empress, and I hope you will not refuse him 
that favor. Indeed, I ask it of you on my own account.” 

“ Tliere is nothing easier than to obtain her a hearing from her 
majesty, and the desire of your highness is enough that I should pro- 
cure it for her. But there is a person far more influential than her 
majesty, at the Imperial Theatre, and that is Madame Tesi. Even if 
her majesty were to take this girl imder her protection, 1 cannot say 
tliat her engagement would be sign Ed without the supreme approba- 
tion of Madame Tesi.” 

“ They say that it is you. Monsieur le Comte, who ruin all these 
ladies horribly, and that were it not for your indulgence, they would 
not have so much power.” 

“ What would you have, princess? Everyone is master in his own 
house. Her majesty understands that were she to interfere by her 
imperial decree in the affairs of the opera, the opera would go all 
wrong. Now, her majesty is anxious that the opera should go on 
well, and that the people should be amused. How can this he 
brought to pass, if the prima donna has a cold on the very day when 
she is to appear, or if the tenor, instead of throwing himself into the 
arms of the basso in the middle of a fine scene of reconciliation, hits 
him a blow with his fist under the ear? We have enough to do to 
manage Caffariello’s whims, and are very well pleased that Madame 
Tesi and Madame Holzbaiier contrive to keep good friends. If we 
cast an apple of discord on the stage, we shall he worse off than 
ever.” 

“ But a third woman is indispensably necessary,” said the Venetian 
ambassador, who warmly protected Porpora and his pupil, “ and her 
offer is an admirable one.” 

“ If she be admirable, so much the worse for her. She will make 
Madame Tesi jealous, who is admirable, and wishes to be the only 
one who is so; and she will make Madame Holzbaiier furious, who 
wishes to be admirable also, and who ” 

“ Is not,” said the ambassador dryly. 

“ She is well born ; she comes of a very respectable family,” said 
M. de Kaunitz shrewdly. 

“ For all that she cannot sing two parts at once. She certainly 
must let the mezzo-soprano have her share in the opera.” 

“ We have a Gorilla, who has just offered herself, who is by far the 
handsomest creature in the world.” 

“ Has vonr excellency seen her already?” 

“ On the very day of her arrival. But I have not yet heard her; 
she was sick.” 

“You shall hear this girl; and you will not hesitate, when they 
have both been heard, to give her t he pH-eference.” 

“ It is very possible. I even confess to you that her face, tliough 
less handsome than that of the other, is yet more agreeable to me. 
She has an amiable and modest expression ; hut my preference \yill do 
her no good, poor thing. She cannot please Madame Tesi without 
displeasing Madame Hofzbaiier; and hitherto, in spite of the very ten- 
der friendship which exists between these two ladies, whatever has 
been approved by the one has always had the fortune to be bitterly 
opposed by the other.” 


420 


CONSUELO, 


“ This is a perilous crisis, then, and an affair of the gravest impor- 
tance,” said the princess with an affectation of seriousness, as she no- 
ticed the weight which these two statesmen attributed to the in- 
trigues of the geeen-room. “ Here is our poor little protegee in the 
scales against Madame Gorilla; and I would lay a wager that Mon- 
sieur Caffariello will cast his swoi'd into the balance, on one side or 
the other.” 

When Consuelo had sung, there was but one voice declaring that, 
since Madame Hasse, nothing had been heard that could compare 
with her; and Monsieur de Kaunitz, coming up to her, said in a sol- 
emn voice, “ Mademoiselle, you sing better than Madame Tesi ; but 
let this be said to you here by all of us in confidence; for if such a 
judgment should go abroad concerning you, you are ruined for ever; 
and you will not make your appearance this year in Vienna. Have 
prudence then, very much prudence,” he added, lowering his voice as 
he sat down beside her. “ You have to struggle against great obsta- 
cles, and you will only triumph by dint of tact.” And therewith en- 
tering into the thousand ramifications of theatrical intrigue, and put- 
ting her fully in possession of the course of all the petty rivalries and 
manoeuvres of companies, the great Kaunitz delivered himself of a 
whole treatise in her favor of the diplomatic science, after the fashion 
of the green-room. 

Consuelo listened to him with her great eyes wide open, with won- 
der; and when he had finished speaking, as he had said at least 
twenty times, “ My opera,” and “ the opera which I produced last 
month,” she fancied that she must have been mistaken when he was 
announced, and that this person who appeared to be so thorouglily 
versed in all the arcanae of the dramatic career, could be no other 
than the director of some opera, or some fashionable music-master. 
She therefore became perfectly at her ease with him, and talked to 
him as she would have done to one of her own profession. His free- 
dom from restraint rendered her much more artless, and much mer- 
rier than strict etiquette would have permitted her to be with a per- 
son of such dominant position as the prime minister. Monsieur de 
Kaunitz was charmed with her, and amused himself talking with her 
for above an hour. The margravine was greatly scandalized at such 
an infraction of propriety; for accustomed as she was to the dull and 
solemn formalities of small courts, she detested the liberty of large 
ones. But she had no longer the power of playing the margravine, for in 
truth she was a margravine no longer, and was only tolerated and re- 
ceived by the empress because she had abjured the Lutheran and 
adopted the Roman Catholic religion. Thanks to tiiis act of hypoc- 
risy, all breaches of decorum, all improprieties of intermarriage, nay, 
even all crimes, could meet with pardon at the court of Austria: and 
Maria Theresa, in this respect, followed the example which her father 
and mother had set her, of receiving any person whomsoever, pro- 
vided he was desirous of escaping the rebuffs and scorns of Protes- 
tant Germany, by taking refifge within the pale of the Romish churcli. 
But, all princess and Catholic as she was, the margravine was no- 
body at Vienna, and Monsieur de Kaunitz was ever5"thing. 

As soon as Consuelo had sung her third piece, Porpora, who knew 
all the fashions of the time, made her a sign, rolled up his music, and 
made his retreat with her through a small side door, without distui b- 
ing any of the great personages who had deigned to open their ears to 
her divine accents. 


“All is going well,” said he, rubbing his hands together, as soon as 
tliey were iti the street, escorted by Joseph, carrying their flambeau. 

“ Kautiitz is an old dolt who knows what he is about, and who will 
give you a good lift.” 

“ And who is Kaunitz?” asked Consuelo, “ I have not seen him.” 

“ You have not seen him, you little blunderhead ! why he talked to 
you for an hour.” 

“ Surely, you do not mean that gentleman with the pink and silver 
waistcoat, who told me such a pack of old wife stories that I took him 
for some old box-keeper.” 

“ That is the very man. What is there so wonderful in that? ” 

“ For my part, I think it is very wonderful,” replied Consuelo ; “ and 
it was not the idea I had formed of a statesman .” 

“ That is because you do not see how states are conducted. If you 
could only see that, you would think it very surprising indeed if 
statesmen were anything else than old women. But come, silence on 
all such subjects as this, and let us, for our part, endeavor to perform 
our business through this masquerade of the world.” 


CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

A FEW days after this, Porpora, having bestirred himselt amazing- 
ly, and intrigued very extensively after his fashion, that is to say, by 
threatening, scolding, and taunting every one to the right and left, 
Consuelo was conducted to the imperial chapel by Master Reuter, tlie 
former master and former enemy of young Haydn, and sang in the 
presence of Maria Theresa, the part of Judith, in the opera of Betulia 
liberata, the poetry by Metastasio. and the music by Reuter himself. 
Consuelo was magnificent; and Maria Theresa deigned to be very 
well satisfied. When the sacred concert Was ended, Consuelo was 
invited with the other singers, Calfariello being one of the number, 
to pass into one of the saloons of the palace, to partake of a collation, 
at whicli Reuter presided. She had scarcely taken her seat between 
that master and Porpora when sounds, at once hurried and solemn, 
were heard coming from the gallery beyond, which caused all the 
guests to start, with the exception of Consuelo and Caffariello, who 
were engaged in an animated discussion on a movement in a certain 
chorus, which the one would have more lively, and the other slower. 

“ The master himself,” said Consuelo, turning toward Reuter, “can 
decide that question ; but Reuter was no longer at her right, nor Por- 
pora at her left; every one had risen from the table, and were arrang- 
ed in a line, with an expression of the profoundest reverence. Cou- 
suelo found herself face to face with a woman of about thirty years, 
handsome and still full of energy and freshness, dressed in black, which 
w'as the chapel costume, and accompanied by seven chldren, one of 
whom she held by the hand. He was the heir to the throne, the young 
CjBsar, Joseph ll., and that handsome woman with the easy bearing, 
the affable yet imposing demeanor, was Maria Theresa. 

“ Is this /a Guiditta '? ” the empress inquired of Reuter. I am very 
much pleased with you, my child,” she added, examining Consuelo 
from head to foot; “ you have given me, in truth, real pleasure, and 


422 


o’ O N S U E L O. 

never have I better appreciated the sublimity of our admirable poet’s 
verse than now, in your harmonious mouth. You pronounce perfect- 
ly well, and that is a point to which I attach a great deal. How old 
are you, mademoiselle? You are a Venetian, are you not? a pupil of 
the famous Porpora, whom I see here with much interest? You are 
desirous of an engagement in the court theatre? You are made to 
shine there resplendent; and Monsieur de Kaunitz protects you.” 

Having questioned Consuelo thus, without giving her ati opportu- 
nity of replying, and looking by turns at Kaunitz and at Metastasio, 
who accompanied her, Maria Theresa made a sign to one of her cham- 
berlains, who presented a very rich bracelet to Consuelo. Before slie 
had so much as thought of answering or thanking her, the empress 
had already traversed the hall, and had withdravvn from her eyes the 
splendor of the imperial brow. She had retired with her rf)yal bevy 
of princes and archduchesses, addressing a gracious and favorable 
word to each one of the musicians who were within reach of her, and 
leaving behind her, as it w'ere, a luminous wake, dazzling the eyes of 
all beholders with the brightness of her glory and her power. 

Caffariello was the only one who retained, or affected to retain, his 
self-possession. He resumed his discussion with Consuelo at the 
veiy point where it had been interrupted ; and Consuelo, putting the 
oracelet into her pocket, without so much as thinking to look at it, 
began to argue with him again, to the great .astonishment and scan- 
dal of the other musicians, who, prostrated before the fascination of 
the imperial vision, did not conceive it possible to think of anything 
else during the whole of that day. There is no need that we should 
say that Porpora formed a solitary exception, both instinctively and 
systematically, to that rage of self-humiliation. He knew how it was 
proper to show their suitable reverence to crowned heads; but, in 
the bottom of his heart he scorned and despised slaves. Master 
Reuter, whom Caffariello addressed concerning the true movement 
of the chorus in dispute, kept his lips hypocritically closed; and 
after having suffered himself to be questioned several times, at last 
replied very coldly, “ I confess to you, monsieur, that I am not with 
you in your conversation. When Maria Theresa is before my eyes, I 
forget the whole world; and long after she has disappeared, I remain 
under the influence of an emotion which does not permit me to 
think of myself.” 

“ Mademoiselle does not appear to be bewildered by the distinguished 
honor which she has drawn down upon us,” said Monsieur Holzbaiier, 
who was present, and whose self-abasement had something more sus- 
tained than that of Reuter. ” It seems to be an every day matter 
to you, signora, to talk with crowned heads: one would say you had 
done nothing else all your life.” 

“I never spoke to any crowned head in my life,” replied Consuelo, 
quietly, who would not notice Holzbaiier’s insinuations; “and her 
majesty did not afford me the honor of doing so, for she seemed, while 
addressing me, to forbid me the honor, or to spare me the trouble of 
replying to her.” 

“ You would have wished, then, to enter into conversation with the 
empress,” said Porpora, with a jesting expression. 

“ I never wished such a thing at all,” replied Consuelo, inartificially. 

“ That is because mademoiselle is, it appears, heedless rather than 
ambitious,” said Reuter, with icy diadain. 

“ Master Reuter,” said Consuelo, confidently and candidly, “ are 


C O N S U E L O. 


423 


you dissatisfied with tlie manner in which I have sung your music?” 
Reuter was compelled to admit tliat no one could have sung it better, 
even under the reign of tlie august and ever-to-be-regretted Charles IV. 
“ In that case,” said Consuelo, “ do not reproach me with lieedlessness. 
I have the ambition to satisfy my masteis. I have the ambition to 
perform the duties of my profession well; and what other ambition 
should I have? what other would not be ridiculous and misplaced on 
my part ? ” 

“ You are too modest, mademoiselle,” resumed Holzbaiier. “ There 
is no ambition too vast for talents such as yours.” 

“I take that for a compliment dictated by your gallantry,” replied 
Consuelo; but I shall not believe that you are really pleased with me, 
until the day when you shall invite me to sing at the court theatre.” 

Holzbaiier, who was fairly c^ight, in spite of all his prudence, at 
fected a fit of coughing, in order to spare himself the necessity of 
speaking, and got himself out of the scrape by a very respectful and 
courteous bow. Then bringing back the conversation to its original 
ground — “ You are really,” he said, “ the calmest and most disinter- 
ested person I ever heard of. You have not even looked at the hand- 
some bracelet of which her majesty has made you a present.” 

“Oh! that is true!” said Consuelo, drawing it from her pocket, 
and passing it to her neighbors, w'ho were anxious to see and value it. 
“ It will be something wherewith to buy wood for the master’s stove, 
in case I should fail to get any engagement this winter,” thought 
Consuelo within herself. A very trivial pension would have been of 
far more use to us than dresses and ornaments.” 

“ How heavenly is her majesty’s beauty,” said Reuter, with a sigh 
of deep feeling, casting an ill-natured sidelong glance at Consuelo. 

“ Yes, she seemed to me to be very handsome,” answered the young 
girl, who did not understand the nudges which Porpora kept giving 
her. 

“ She seemed to you,” said Reuter. “ You are difficult to please.” 

“I had scarcely time to look at her, she passed so quickly.” 

“ But her dazzling genius! the intellect which is displayed at every 
word which issues from her lips! ” 

“I had so little time to hear her, and she said so little!” 

“Truly, mademoiselle, you must be of brass or adamant; I know 
not what there is that can move you.” 

“ I was much moved while singing your Judith,” said Consuelo, 
W’ho knew how’ to be sharp when she pleased, and who now began to 
perceive the ill-will of the Viennese masters towards her. 

“ That girl has wdt, under all the simplicity of her manner,” said 
Holzbaiier to Master Reuter. “ But it is of Porpora's own school, all 
scorn and mockery.” 

“ If we do not look out, old-fashioned recitative and the antiquated 
style w'ill take the field against us more victorously than of yore,” re- 
plied Reuter. “ But be not disturbed, I have a method for preventing 
this Porporiniallerie from raising its voice.” 

When they were all rising from table, CafTariello said to Consuelo, 
in her ear, “Do you see, my child, all these people are mere gutter 
SAveepings. You will have a good deal of trouble before you will bte 
able to do any thing here; they are all against you. They would be 
against me if they dared.” 

“ And what have we done to them? ” asked Consuelo, in astonish- 
ment. 


424 


CONSUELO. 


We are both pupils of the greatest singing master in the world. 
They and their creatures are oiir natural enemies. They will indispose 
Maria Theresa towards you; and every word you have uttered here 
will be repeated to her, with malicious amplifications. She will be 
told that you said she is not handsome, and that you considered her 
gifc mean and trivial. I know all their tricks. Take courage, however, 
I will protect you, and 1 believe that the judgment of Caffariello in 
music is worth at least as much as that of Maria Theresa.” 

“ Between the malice of the one party, and the absurdity of the 
other,” said Consuelo to herself, as she retired, “ I am nicely com- 
promised. Oh, Porpora,” said she, “ I will do my utmost to obtain a 
re-engagement in the theatre. Oh, Albert! I hope that I shall fail to 
do so ! ” 

On the following day, Porpora having business in town all day, and 
thinking that Consuelo was somewhat pale, he requested her to take 
a drive out of town to the Spinnerin am Kreutz, with Keller’s wife, 
who had offered to accompany her whenever she desired it. As soon 
as the maestro had gone out, “ Beppo,” said the young girl, go 
quickly out and hire a little carriage, and let us both go and see An- 
gela, and thank the canon. We promised to do so before; but my 
cold must be my excuse.” 

“ And in what costume will you present yourself to the canon ? ” 
asked Beppo. 

“ 111 this which I wear,” she replied. “ The canon must learn who 
I am, and receive me in my true form.” 

“Excellent canon, I quite look forward to seeing him again.” 

“ And I also.” 

“ And yet, it almost vexes me to think — to think 

“ To think what? ” 

“ That his head will now be turned altogether.” 

“ And at what, I pray you ? Am I a goddess ? for I never imag- 
ined it.” 

“ Consuelo, remember that he was three parts crazy about you 
when we left him.” 

“ I tell you,” she replied, “ that it will be that he shall know me to 
be a woman, and see me as I am, to give him back all his command 
over himself, and to become again that which God made him — a rea- 
sonable man.” 

“ It is true that the dress has something to do. Thus, when I saw 
you here transformed into a young lady, after being in the habit for a 
fortnight of treating you as a hoy, I experienced I know not what of 
fear, of constraint, Ibr which I could not account to myself: and it is 
certain that during our journey, if I had been permitted to fall in love 
with you— but you w'ill say that I am talking nonsense ” 

“ Certainly, you are talking nonsense, Joseph, and what is more, you 
are losing time in gossiping. We have ten leagues to pass in going to 
and returning from the priory. It is now eiglit in the morning, and 
we must be back at seven this evening to sup with the maestro/’ 

Three hours after this, Beppo and his companion descended from 
their carriage at the door of the priory. It was a lovely day, but the 
canon was looking at his flowers with a mournful aspect. When he 
saw Joseph he uttered a cry of joy, and hurried to meet him ; but he 
stood stupefied on recognising his favorite Bertoni in the dress of a 
vroman. 

“ Bertoni, my beloved child,” he exclaimed, with a sort of pious 


CONSUELO. 425 

frankness, “ what means tliis disguise, and wherefore do you come 
to see me transfigured thus? It is not carnival times.” 

My most revered friend,” said Consuelo, kissing his hand ; “ your 
reverence must pai'don me for liaving deceived you — Bertoni never 
existed, and when I had the honor to meet you I was really in dis- 
guise.” 

We thought,” said Joseph, who feared to see the consternation of 
the canon turn into disgust, “ that your reverence was not deceived 
by the innocent deceit. It was not a trick played off upon you, but a 
necessity imposed on us by circumstances, and we believed that your 
reverence had the kindness and delicacy to lend yourself to it.” 

“ And did you believe this? ” asked the canon, alarmed and thun- 
derstruck; “ you too, Bertoni — I would say, mademoiselle — did you 
believe this? ” 

“ No, Monsieur Canon,” replied Consuelo; “ I never believed it for 
a moment. I saw perfectly that your reverence had not the slightest 
suspicion of the truth.” 

“ And you do me justice,” said the canon, in a tone which was ip 
sort stern, yet deeply dejected; “I do not know how to feign, and 
had I suspected your sex, I certainly should not have insisted, as I 
did, on persuading you to stay with me. There was, indeed, a vague 
report — a suspicion which made me smile — in the neighboring village, 
and even among my own people, so obstinately did I self-deceive my- 
self on your account. They said that one of the young musicians 
who sang on the patron-saint’s day of the village, was a woman in 
disguise. But then it was replied, that this was a piece of Gottleib’s 
spite, to annoy and alarm the curate. In a word, I actually contra- 
dicted that report myself, to the utmost. You see that I was com- 
pletely your dupe, and that we will take care not to be so again.” 

“ There was much misapprehension,” replied Consuelo, with the 
assurance of real dignity; “ but there was no dupe. Monsieur Canon. 
I do not think I even overstepped for one moment the limits of the 
respect I owe you, and the proprieties which honor imposes. I was 
travelling on the road by night, with no place where I might lodge; I 
was worn out with fatigue and thirst, after a long day’s travel on foot. 
You would not have refused your hospitality to a mere beggar. You 
granted it to me in the name of music, and in music I discharged my 
debt to you. If I did not set off without regard to your wishes on 
the next morning, it is because unforeseen circumstances occurred 
which dictated to me duties superior to all others. My enemy, my 
rival, my persecutress fell, as it were, from the clouds at your door, 
destitute and devoid of help; she had a right to my cares and niy 
assistance. Your reverence must needs remember the rest; you well 
know that if I profited by your goodness, it was not for my own 
advantage. You know that I went my own way so soon as rny duty 
was accomplished; and if I return to-day to thank you in person for 
the goodness with which you have overwhelmed me, it is because 
honor made it my duty myself to undeceive you, and to furnish you 
with those explanations winch are necessary to our mutual dignity.” 

“ There is something very extraordinary and very mysterious in all 
tills,” said the canon, half conquered. “ You say that the miserable 
woman whose child I have adopted, is your enemy — your rival. Who 
are you then\yourself, Bertoni? Pardon me, if that name keeps re- 
turning to iny lips, and tell me what I am to call you in future.” 

“I am called the Porporina,” replied Consuelo; “ I am a pupil of 
Porpora— a cantatrice, and attached to the theatre.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


4ii6 

“Ah! it is well!” said the canon with a deep sigh. “ I ought to 
have guessed it from the manner in vvliicli j'ou played your part; and, 
as regards your prodigious talent for music, I am no longer surprised. 
You have been brought up in an excellent school. May I ask whether 
Beppo is your brother or your husband” ” 

“ Neither the one nor the other. He is my brother by adoption, no 
more, Monsieur Canon; and if my soul had not felt itself to be as 
chaste and spotless as your own, I had not sirllied the sanctity of your 
dwelling by my presence.” 

Consuelo had, to speak the truth, an irresistible accent; and the 
canon felt its power, as all pure and upright souls ever feel the power 
of sincerity. He felt, as it were, consoled beneath a weight of woe; 
and as he walked slowly between his two young proteges, he ques- 
tioned Consuelo with a sweetness and renewed affection, which she 
gradually ceased to resist, even in imagination. She related to hitn 
rapidly, though without mentioning names, the principal circumstan- 
ces of her life; her betrothal with Anzoleto beside her mother’s 
death-bed; his infidelity ; the hatred of Coi’illa; the infamous designs 
of Zustiniani, and her departure from Venice; the attachment which 
Count Albert had fornied for her; the offers of the family of Rudol- 
stadt; her own hesitation; her flight from the Giants’ Castle; her 
meeting with Joseph Haydn; her journey; her fright and compassion 
by Corilla’s bed-side; her gratitude for the protection granted by the 
canon to Anzoleto’s child; and, to conclude, her return to Vienna, 
and even the interview she had had with Maria Theresa. Joseph 
had never till this moment heard the whole of Consuelo's history. 
She had never spoken to him of Anzoleto, and the few words which 
she now let fall concerning her by-gone love for that worthless wretch 
made but slight impression on him ; but her generosity toward Corilla, 
and lier solicitude for the child, moved him so deeply that he turned 
away to conceal his tears. The canon could not restrain his own. 
The narrative of Consuelo — concise, energetic, and sincere — produced 
the same effect on him as the reading of a fine romance would have 
done, but he had never read a romance, and this was the first roman- 
tic tale which had ever in his life initiated in him the lively emotions 
which we derive from the adventures of others. He had seated him- 
self on a turf bank, in order to listen the more at his ease, and when 
the young girl ceased, he cried out — “ If this be true, as I am satisfied 
it is, you are a pure and holy girl — you are a St. Cecilia, returned to 
this world.” 

“ Now, Monsieur Canon,” said Consuelo rising, “ tell me the news 
of Angela before I take my leave of your reverence.” 

“ Angela is very well, and comes on wonderfully,” replied the canon. 
“My gardeners wife takes great care of her, and I see her constantly 
giving her the air in the garden. She will grow among the flowers, 
like another flower under my eyes; and when the time shall be come 
to make a Christian soul of her, I will not stint its cultivation. Re- 
pose that trust in me, my children. What I have promised in the face 
of lieaven that will I religiously perform. It seems, madam, that her 
mother will not dispute this care with us; for although she is no far- 
ther off than at Vienna, she has not once sent to ask for tidings of her 
daughter.” 

“ She may have done so indirectly, and without your hearing of it,” 
answered Consuelo. “ I cannot believe that a mother is indifferent 
on such a point. But Corilla is struggling for an engagement at the 


CONSUELO. 


427 

Court Theatre; she knows that her Majesty is very strict on the 
point of morals, and never grants her protection to persons of ques- 
tionable repute. It is her intei est to conceal her faults, at least until 
her engagement has been signed. Let us, therefore, keep her secret.’ 

“ And yet she is opposing you to the utmost! ” cried Joseph; ‘‘ and 
they say she will can y the day through lier intrigues— that she is de- 
faming you throughout the city, and that she represents you every- 
where as the mistress of Zustiuiani. This has been spoken of at the 
embassy. Keller told me so. They were very indignant there, but fear- 
ed that she would persuade Monsieur de Kaunitz, who is very fond of 
such gossip as that, and never ceases from praising the beauty of Go- 
rilla.” 

“ She has said such things of me! ’ cried Comuelo, blushing with 
indignation; but then she added, calmly, “it was, however, sure to 
be so; 1 ought to liave expected it.” 

“ But there is but one word needed to overthrow all her calumnies, 
and that word I will utter,” said Joseph. “ 1 will proclaim that ” 

“ You will proclaim nothing. Beppo; it would be a piece of coward- 
ice, of barbarity. You will not mention it either. Monsieur Canon, 
and if I had wished to do so, you would have prevented me, would 
you not? ” 

“ A truly evangelical soul ! ” cried the canon. “ But consider, pray, 
that this secret cannot, by its nature, be preserved for any very long 
time. It will be suflicient that my servant, or any peasant of all 
those that know the facts, should utter one word, and it will be made 
public that the chaste Gorilla has been brought to a bed of a child 
without a father, and that she has abandoned it into the bargain.” 

“ Within a fortniglit either Gorilla or I shall have obtained an en- 
gagement. I would not carry the day over her by an act of ven- 
geance. Until that time, Beppo, silence, or I withdraw from you both 
my esteem and friendsbip. And now adieu. Monsieur le Canon ; tell 
me that you pardon me — give me once more your paternal hand — 
and I withdraw before your people have recognised my features in 
this garb.” 

“ My people may say what they please, and ray benefice may go to 
the devil, if it be agreeable to heaven so to dispose of it. I have re- 
ceived of late a little inheritance, which gives me courage to brave the 
thunders of the ordinary. . Therefore, my chiJdren,do not mistake me 
for a saint; I am tired of obeying, and of being constrained on all 
sides; I choose to live straightforwardly, and to have done with child- 
ish fears. Since I have no longer Bridget’s sceptre at ray elbow, and 
still more, since I feel that I have an independent fortune, I feel my- 
self as brave as a lion. Now, then, come and breakfast with me; we 
will baptize Angela afterward, and then we will have music till dinner 
time.” 

He hurried them into the priory, and called aloud to his valets as he 
entered, “ Here, Andrew, Joseph, come and see Signor Bertoni meta- 
morphosed into a lady. You would not have expected that, hey? 
No, nor I either. Well, make haste and get over your surprise, and 
set coveis for us als quickly as you can.” 

The repast was exquisite, and our young people speedily perceived 
that if certain grave changes had been worked in the character of the 
worthy canon, it was not in reference to his appreciation of good 
cheer. The child was then carried into the chapel of the priory. The 
canon laid aside his doublet, and putting on his cassock and surplice. 


428 


CONRUELO. 


performed the ceremony. Consuelo and Joseph filled the stations of 
god-father and god-mother, and the name of Angela was confirmed to 
the little girl. The rest of the afternoon was devoted to music, and 
then followed the leave-taking. The canon was mortified at his ina- 
bility to detain his friends to dinner, but he yielded to their arguments, 
and consoled himself with the idea of seeing them often in Vienna, 
where he proposed to come and spend a portion of the winter. While 
they were harnessing the carriage, he led them to the hot-house, in 
order to make them admire some new plants, with which he had en- 
riched his collection. The day was closing, but the canon, all whose 
senses were highly cultivated, had made but a few steps under the 
crystal roof of his transparent palace, when he cried out, “ I discover 
here an extraordinary perfume. Can the vanilla-scented gladislus 
have flowered? But no, it is not the aroma of my gladislus. The 
strelitzas are scentless; the perfume of the cyclamens is less pure and 
less penetrating than this. What can have happened here? If my 
volkameria were not dead, 1 should think that this was it. Alas! 
poor plant ! I will think of it no more ! ” 

But on a sudden the good canon gave a great start, and uttered a 
cry of surprise and admiration as he saw, standing before him in a 
large tub, the finest volkameria he had ever beheld in all his life, all 
covered with clusters of little white roses, centred with pink, the 
sweet perfume of which filled the whole hot-house, and overpowered 
all the commoner odors which reigned around it. 

“Is this a prodigy? Whence is this foretaste of Paradise — this 
flower from the garden of Beatrice? ” he exclaimed, in a poetic rap- 
ture. 

“ We have brought it hither in our carriage, with all care imagina- 
ble,” said Consuelo. “ Permit us to offer it to you in reparation of a 
horrible imprecation which escaped my lips on a certain day, and 
which I shall repent so long as I live.” 

“ Oh ! my dear daughter, what a gift! — and with what delicacy is it 
not offered! Oh! beloved volkameria, you shall have a particular 
name, such as I am in the habit of giving to the most splendid indi- 
viduals of my collections. You shall be called Bertoni, in order to 
consecrate the memory of a being who exists no longer, but whom I 
yet loved with the affection of a father.” 

“ Nay, good father,” said Consuelo, pressing his hand, “ you ought 
to accustom yourself to love your daughters as much as your sons! 
Arjgela is not a boy.” 

“ And la Porporina is my daughter also,” said the canon. “ Yes, 
my daughter— my daughter,” he repeated, looking alternately at Con- 
suelo and the Bertoni volkameria with tears in his eyes. 

At six o’clock in the evening Consuelo and Joseph had entered 
their own house; the carriage had set them down at the entrance of 
their suburb, and nothing betrayed their innocent escapade. Porpora 
was only astonished that Consuelo had not a better appetite after her 
drive through the beautiful meadows which surround the capital of 
the empire, but the canon’s breakfast had perhaps rendered Consuelo 
a little dainty that day; the fine air, however, and *the exercise she 
had taken, secured her a good night’s rest, and on the morrow she 
felt herself in better health and courage that she had been since she 
arrived at Vienna. 


C O N S U E L O. 


429 


CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

Amid the uncertainty of her destiny, Consuelo expecting perhaps 
to find an excuse or motive in her own heart, determined to write at ^ 
once to Count Christian of Rudolstadt, to inform him of her relations 
to Porpora, of the efforts the latter had made to induce her to return 
to the theatre, and that she hoped yet to be able to disappoint his ex- 
pectations. She spoke to liim in full sincerity, and made a display of 
all the gratitude, devotion, and submission, which was due her old 
master. Making him the confidant of all her apprehensions in relation 
to Albert, she besought him at once to dictate a letter to the lat- 
ter, the effect of which would be to procure him calm and quiet. 
She concluded it thus: — “I ask your lordship to grant me time to 
look into my own heart, and to make up my own mind. I am re- 
solved to keep my word, and can swear before God that I am able to 
close my heart and mind to every new phantasy and to every new 
affection. If, though, I return to the theatre, I act in such a manner 
as to violate every promise, and renounce all hope of being able to 
keep my obligations; let your lordship judge me, or rather the destiny 
which compels me and the duty which commands me. From you I 
expect more than from my own reason. Can it, however, contradict 
my conscience? ” 

When this letter was sealed and given to Joseph, Consuelo felt 
more calm, as always haj)i)ens when people are in difficulty and are 
able to gain time or postpone a crisis. She then prepared to pay a 
visit with Porpora, wliich he thought most important and decisive, to 
the much bepraised imperial poet, the Abbe Metastasio. 

This illustrious personage was then about fifty years of age. His 
face was handsome, his address was graceful, and his conversation 
charming. Consuelo would have entertained the greatest sympathy 
for him, but for the fact that in entering the house the separate sto- 
ries of which were inhabited by the imperial poet and the wig-maker 
Keller, she had the following conversation. 

Consuelo, (Porpora speaks,) you are about to see a handsome man, 
with a keen black eye, a rudely complexion, and a fresh and smiling 
lip. He insists on subjecting himself to a slow and dangerous mal- 
ady. He eats, sleeps, toils, and grows fat, just as any one else does; 
yet, he feigns to suffer from want of sleep, appetite, debility, and ma- 
rasmus. Do not be so ignorant, as, when he complains of illness, to 
tell him that he has none, that he looks well, or any other similar 
fatuity. He wishes people to pity him, and is unhappy that people do 
not put on mourning for him before he dies. Do not, though, speak 
to him of death, or of any one that is dead, for he fears to die. Do 
not when you leave him, be so stupid as to say: — ‘ I hope when I see 
you again you*- health will be better; ’ for he wishes all to think he is 
dying, and could he persuade others that he is dead he would be too 
well satisfied, provided always that he were well satisfied himself that 
he is really alive.” 

“ That is a foolish mania for a great man,” said Consuelo. “ What 
can one say, if he will be neither dead nor alive? ” 

“ Speak to him of his disease, ask him a thousand questions, listen 
to a description of all his sufferings and troubles; and in conclusion 
say, that he is too careless of himself, that he is too negligent, and 
works too hard. By talking in this maimer we shall win his favor. 


430 


C O N S TJ E L O, 


‘‘ Do we not go to ask him to write a song, music to which you will 
compose, and which 1 will sing? How can we at once advise him 
not to write, and then ask him to write for us? ” 

“ In the course of conversation all this will come right. We hav« 
only to arrange matters beforehand.” 

The maestro wished his pupil to make herself agreeable to the 
poet. The natural caustic vein of his temperament did not permit 
him to restrain the ridiculous points of the disposition of otliers, and 
he was awkward enough to prepare Consuelo for a ligid examination, 
and for a perfect contempt which we always feel for those who insist 
on being flattered and admired. Incapable of adulation and deceit, 
she surtered when she heard Porpora speak of the poet’s distresses, 
and thus cruelly ridicule his imaginary sufferings. Often slie blushed 
and maintained a painful silence in spite of her master’s telegraphic 
efforts to induce lier to second him. 

The reputation of Consuelo began to be known at Vienna; she had 
sungin many salons, and her admission into the Italian opera was an hy- 
potheosis which not a little agitated all the musical coteries. Metastasio 
was all powerful ; if by flattering his self-esteem Consuelo could in- 
duce him to sympathise with her, he would confide to Porpora the task 
of writing music for Attileo Regolo, which he had completed and 
kept many years in his desk. The pupil then must exert her influ- 
ence for the master, who did not at all please the imperial poet. 

Metastasio was a true Italian, and people of that country are not so 
easily deceived as some others. He had penetration enough to know 
Porpora had but a moderate admiration for his dramatic genius, and 
that more than once (either right or wrong) he had criticised his 
timidity and his exaggerated sensibility. The icy reserve of Consuelo, 
the little sympathy she entertained for his sickness, did not seem that 
they really were the awkwardness respectful pity always inspires. He 
almost looked on it as an insult, and but for his politeness and knowl- 
edge of the world, would have positively refused to hear her sing. 
After a trifling of some minutes he consented, making an excuse of 
the excitability of his nerves and his fear of excitement. He had 
lieard Consuelo sing his oratorio of Judith. It was necessary for him 
to hear her in scenic music. Porpora was anxious too that he should. 

“ What, though, shall I do, and what shall I sing,” said Consuelo in 
a low tone, “ if he is afraid of excitement? ” 

“Excite him,” said the maestro; “he should be aroused from his 
torpor, because then he feels like writing.” 

Consuelo sang an air from Achillo in Sciro, which had been ar- 
ranged by Caldara, in 1736, and which was the best dramatic work of 
Metastasio. It had been performed on the occasion of the marriage 
of Maria Theresa. Metastasio was as much amazed by her voice and 
method as when he first heard lier. He resolved, though, to main- 
tain the same cold silence she had exhibited when he spoke of his 
health. He could not succeed, for notwithstanding all, he. was an 
artist, and a noble heart beat in his bosom. Besides, when a good 
interpreter makes the accents of a part vibrate, and recalls to him the 
recollection of Ids triumphs, he cannot be offended. 

The Abbe Metastasio attempted to resist the all-powerful charm of 
her voice. He coughed and moved about in his chair, like a man 
overcome by suffering. Suddenly, though, as if overcome by recollec- 
tions which were more touching even than those of his own glory, he 
covered his face with his handkerchief, and began to sob. Porpora, 


CONSUELO. 431 

who stood behind liis chair, made a sign to Consuelo to let him alone, 
and rubbed his hands maliciously. 

These tears which were many and sincere, reconciled Consuelo to 
the abbe. As soon as she had finished the air, she drew near to kiss 
his hand and say, with an expression he could not resist: Alas! sir, 
how proud I would be to have thus excited you, were it not that some 
remorse hangs about my heart. I am afraid I have injured your 
health and that poisons all my joy.” 

“ My dear young lady,” said Metastasio, completely overcome, “ you 
do not, cannot know the good and evil you have done me. Never 
before did I hear any female voice which recalled to me that of my 
dear Marianna! You have so completely recalled both her manner 
and expression to me, that methought I heard her. Ah ! you have 
crushed my very heart! ” He began to weep again. 

“His lordship speaks of an illustrious person whom you should 
al ways look on as a model,” said Poi pora to his pupil. “ He speaks 
of the celebrated Marianna Bulgai’ini.” 

“ ia Eomaninaf” said Consuelo. “Ah! when I was a cliild, I 
heard her in Venice; it is the first of my hajDpy memories, and I 
never will forget her.” 

“ I see,” said Metastasio, “ that you have heard her, and that she has 
made an ineffiiceable impression on you; my child, imitate her in 
every thing, in her play as well as in her voice, in her kindness as 
well as in her greatness, in her power as well as in her devotion ! How 
beautiful she seemed in the character of Venus, my first opera at 
Home; that was my first triumph.” 

“ And does she owe her greatest success to your lordship? ” 

“ We contributed to the fortune of each other. I could never, 
though, discharge my obligations to her. Never did so much love, so 
much perseverance, and so many delicate cares inhabit a mortal soul. 
Angel of my life, I will weep for you alvvays and aspire only to re- 
join you.” Here Metastasio wept again. Consuelo was much moved, 
and Porpora pretended to be, though in spite of every elfort, bis coun- 
tenance continued to be scornful as possible. Consuelo observed this, 
and resolved to reproach him for it. As for Metastasio, he saw only 
the effect he expected to produce — emotion and admiration in Consu- 
elo. He was a real poet: that is to say, he preferr(M to weep in the 
presence of others rather khat in the solitude of his own room, and 
was never so much aware of his sufferings as when he was able to de- 
scribe them eloquently. Led on by the opportunity, he told Consu- 
elo so much of the early history of his youth, in which La Rornanina 
liad been so conspicuous: he told of the many services that generous 
woman had rendered him, of her filial tenderness to hei’ old paretits, 
and the maternal sacrifice she made in separating from him, and send- 
ing him to seek his fortune in Vienna. When in the choicest terms 
he had told her how his dear Marianna, with a lacerated lieart and in 
sobs, had besought him to abandon her, and think only of himself, he 
said — “ Ch ! had she imagined the fate which awaited me, when separ- 
ated from her, had she foreseen the suffei ing, the terror, anguish, con- 
tests, and reverses, and even the terrible disease I was to undergo here, 
she would have spared each of us this terrible immolation. Alas! I 
did not think we bade each other an eternal adieu, and that we 
were never to meet again on earth.” 

“How — what — did you never meet again?” said Consuelo, whose 
eyes were filled with tears. The words of Metastasio had a wonder- 
ful power over her. “ Did she never come to Vienna? ” 


432 


CONSUELO. 


“ She never did,” said the abbe, completely overpowered. 

“ After so much devotion, did she not dare to come hither to see 
you?” said Consuelo, perfectly disregarding Porpora’s gestures. 

Metastasio was apparently absorbed in his own ideas and said noth- 
ing. 

“ But she may yet do so,” said Consuelo candidly. “ She certainly 
will. That would restore your health.” 

The abbe grew pale and expressed the greatest terror. The maes- 
tro coughed as loud as he could, and Consuelo remembering that La 
Romanina had been dead more than ten years, saw how indiscreet 
she had been, by reminding the poet of the departed, especially as be 
hoped to meet her again only in the tomb. She bit her lips, and soon 
retired with Poi-pora, who bore away as the fruits of this visit, only 
vague promises and forced civilities, such as everybody receives. 

‘‘ How stupid you have been ! ” said he to Consuelo as soon as they 
were alone. 

“ Yes— yes; I see I have been. I forgot that La Romanina is no 
longer alive; think, maestro, if you please, that this loving and heart- 
broken man is attached to life as much as you please; I, though, am 
persuaded that sorrow for the loss of her he loved is the only cause 
of his sickness; and that, though some superstitious terror makes 
him tremble at death, he is not the less weary of life.” 

“My child.” said Porpora, “ people who are rich, honored, flattered, 
and in good health, are never weary of life: when people have no 
other passions or cares than such as he has, they either do not tell the 
truth, or play a part when they curse their existence.” 

“ Tell me not that he never had any other passions. He loved Ma- 
rianna, and I now know why he gave that name to his god-daughter, 
and to his niece, Marianna Martiez.” Consuelo was near saying the 
pupil of Joseph, hut did not, for she paused abruptly. 

“ Go on,” said Porpora: “ his god-daughter, his niece, or his daugh- 
ter.” 

“ People say so: but what matters that? ” 

“ It would prove the abbe soon found consolation for the absence of 
her he loved: when, though, you asked (may God foi-give your stupid- 
ity) why Marianna did not come here to see him, he did not reply. I 
will, for him. La Romanina had indeed done him the greatest service 
which a man can ever receive from a worfian. She had fed. lodged, 
dressed, succored, and sustained him in every condition of life. She 
even aided him in obtaining the position of poeta cesareo. She became 
the servant, the nurse, the benefactress of his old parents. All this is 
true — Marianna had a noble heart: I knew her well: it is also true 
that she was very anxious to see him again, and wished to be received 
at the Court Theatre. This also is true : the abbe took no interest in 
her, and never would permit her. True, the most tender letters im- 
aginable passed between them ; I am sure those of the poet were ad- 
mirable: so were hers, for they were printed. Though he said to his 
dilettissima arnica that he longed for the day of their reunion, that he 
toiled to bring about that happy dawn, Maitre Renard managed so 
well, that the unfortunate singer never chanced to subside into the 
crowd of his illustrious and lucrutare love.s, nor to meet the third 
Marianna, (some fatality existed, connecting him with women of that 
name,) the noble and all powerful Countess of Athlan, mistress of the 
last Caesar. All say the result of this affair was a secret man iage ; 
and I therefore think it in singular bad taste for him to tear his hair 


C O N S U E L o. 433 

for poor Roinanina, whom he suffered to die of chagrin, while he was 
W'iting madrigals to the ladies of the imperial court.” 

‘‘ You comment and decide on all this like a cruel cynic, my dear 
maestro,” said Consuelo, with not a little emotion. 

“ I speak as every one else does. Public rumor sustains all this. 
Bah! there are many actors who belong to no theatre. That is an 
old proverb.” 

“ Public rumor is not always well informed : at all events, it is never 
very charitable. You see, maestro, 1 cannot think a man so renown- 
ed and gifted is only an actor playing his part. I have seen him shed 
real tears; and even though he should reproach himself for having 
forgotten his own Marianna too soon, remorse must increase the sin- 
cerity of his present regrets. I had, at all events, rather deem him 
weak than base. He was made an abbe, overwhelmed with benefits; 
the court was very devout, and amours with actresses would have 
given rise to great scandal. He did not wish exactly to betray and 
deceive la Bulgarini . . . He was afraid — he hesitated — he gained 

time, and she died.” 

“ And, therefore, he thanked Providence,” said the pitiless maestro. 
“Now our empress sends him boxes and rings with her cypher in 
brilliants, and golden pots of Spanish tobacco; seals made of one bril- 
liant, all of which glitter not a little in the eyes of the poet, filled as 
they are w'ith tears.” 

“And can this console him for having crushed la Roinanina’s 
heart? ” 

“ Perhaps not. Yet, fr)r these trifles, he crushed it ” 

“A sad vanity; for my part, I could scarcely keep from laughing 
when he showed us his golden chandelier, with its golden capital, and 
the ingenious device the empress caused to be engraved on it — 

‘Perche possa risparmiare i suoi occhi.’ ’* 

“ Therefore was it that he appreciated the compliment, and said * 
emphatically: — AffeUuosa expressione, mlutabile piu deWoroJ Oh! 
poor man ! ” 

“ Unfortunate man,” said Consuelo, with a sigh. She returned 
home very sad, for she had involuntarily compared the relation of 
Marianna and Metastasio, and herself and Albert. *' To hope and to 
die,” said she. “Is this the fate of those who love passionately? 
To make us wait and make us die! Is this the fate of those who pas- 
sionately pursue the chimera of glory? ” 

“Why muse thus?” said the maestro. “I think, in spite of all 
your indiscretions, everything is as it should be, and that you have 
ovei come Metastasio.” 

“ The conquest of so weak a soul as his is a poor triumph. I fancy 
one who w^as too timid to receive la Bulgarini in the imperial theatre, 
will not have courage enough t(* receive me.” 

“ As far as art is concerned, Metastasio now governs the empress.” 

“ In matters of art Metastasio will give the empress no advice she 
is apparently unwilling to receive. It is all nonsense to speak of the 

favorites and counsellors of her majesty 1 have seen the 

features of Maria Theresa, and 1 tell you, maestro, she is too prudent 
to have lovers, and too imperious to have friends.” 

“ Well,” said Porpora*, in a thoughtful manner, “ we must gain the 
empress herself. You must sing some morning in her apartments, and 
she must speak to and talk with you. They say she only loves virtu- 
27 


CONSUELO. 


434 

OHS persons ; and if she has the eagle eye people say, she will appreci- 
ate and love you. I will at once go to work so that I may bring yo<* 
Ute-k-tete.” 


CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

One morning, when Joseph was sweeping the antechamber of 
Porpora, he forgot that the room was small, and the maestro’s slunv- 
bers light, and he sang aloud a musical phrase which occurred to him, 
to which, with his brush, he kept up a kind of accompaniment. Por- 
pora, offended at being awakened before his time, turned over in his 
bed and sought to go to sleep; but as he was pursued by this beauti- 
ful and fresh voice, wliich sang a phrase of much expression and 
beauty, he put on his robe de chambre, and looked through the key- 
hole, half pleased and half offended, also, at the idea of any one ven- 
turing to compose in his room before he chose to get up. How great 
was his surprise to hear Beppo singing and drumming, following out 
his idea, while he seemed intent on domestic cares. 

“ What is that you are singing,” said the maestro, in a loud voice, 
as he threw open the door. Joseph, confused as a man might be who 
was suddenly awakened, threw down his broom and bunch of feath- 
ers, and was about to leave the house rapidly as he could. But for a 
long time, he had abandoned the hope of becoming Porpora’s pupil, 
yet delighted in hearing the studies of Consuelo and the maestro, and 
in receiving secretly the instruction of that kind friend, when Porpora 
was absent. He would not then on any account have been dismissed ; 
and to remove any suspicion, determined at once to tell a falsehood. 

What am I singing?” said he, looking down. “Alas! maestro, I 
do not know.” 

“ Does any man sing anything he does not know ? You do not tell 
the truth.” 

“ I assure you, maestro, I do not. You terrified me so much, that I 
have already forgotten. I know it was wrong to sing so near your 
room, and was so engrossed that I thought myself far away. I said, 
now you can sing, for there is no one near to hear you, and say Hush, 
you sing false: you could not learn music.” 

“ Who said you sang false?” 

“ Everybody.” 

“ Well,” said the maestro, in a stern voice, “ I say you do not. Who 
tried to teach you music ? ” 

“ Why, Maestro Reuter, whom my friend Keller shaves, and who, 
after one lesson, bade me go about my business, saying I was an ass.” 

Joseph knew enough of the maestro to be aware that he had no 
great respect for Reuter; and on this allusion to him, placed no small 
reliance as a stepping-stone to the good graces of Porpora, though he 
expected the latter to be useful to him. Reuter, though, in his visits, 
never deigned to notice his old pupil. 

“ Master Reuter is an ass himself,” muttered Porpora. “ That, 
though, is not the question,” said he aloud. “ I wish you to tell me 
where you fished out that passage; ” and he sang the one Joseph had, 
perhaps, sang ten times without thinking of it. 

“ Oh, that ! ” said Haydn, who had begun to form a better opinion 


c o N s u E j, (). . 436 

of the disposition of his master, though he was not yet sure fcf it; “ it 
is something ! have heard la signora sing.” 

“Ah! Consuelo? my daughter? I did not know that. Then you 
listen at this door? ” 

“No, monsieur; but the music is heard in all the rooms, even in 
the kitchen, and people must hear.” 

“ I do not like to be served by persons with such a memory, and 
who, perhaps will shout out my unpublished ideas in the streets. 
Pack up your things to-day, and in the evening seek another place.” 

This blow fell like a thunderbolt on poor Joseph, who went to the 
kitchen in tears. Consuelo soon heard the story of his misfortune, 
and restored his confidence by promising to regulate matters. 

“ What, maestro,” said she to Porpora, as she handed him his cof- 
fee, “ w’ould you dismiss the poor lad, who is laborious and faithful, 
because probably for once in bis life, he did not sing false? ” 

I tell you that servant is a meddlesome lellow, and a liar — that he 
has been induced by some enemy of mine to enter my service, so as 
to obtain the secret of my compositions, and appropriate them before 
they are published. I venture to swear the fellow already knows my 
new opera by heart, and copies the manuscripts as soon as my back is 
turned. How' many of my ideas have I not found in those pretty op- 
eras which turned the heads of all Venice, while mine were swept 
away; and people said, — ‘ That old fellow, Porpora, gives us new ope- 
ras, the airs of which are sung at every corner.’ Now this morning 
the fool betrayed himself, and sang a phrase which certainly comes 
from Mynheer Hasse, of which I have made a note; and to avenge 
myself, will put it in my new opera, to repay the trick he has so often 
played me.” 

“Be careful, maestro; that phrase has, perhaps, been published. 
You do not know all our cotemporary publications by heart.” 

“ I have heard them, though ; and I tell you it is too remarkable for 
me to forget it.” 

“ Well, maestro, thank you for the compliment, for the phrase is 
mine.” 

This was not true, for the phrase in question had that very morn- 
ing been shut up in the head of Haydn. She, though, had already 
learned it, in order to be able to conquer the distrustful investigations 
of the maestro. Porpora asked her to sing it. She did so at once, 
pretending that she had tried to arrange it on the previous evening, 
to gratify the Abbe Metastasio; the first verses of his pretty pastor^: 

“ Gia reide la primavera. 

Col suo florito aspeito ; 

Gia il qrato zefflretto 
gcherza fra I'e-rbe e i fiori. 

Tornan le frondi agli alberi 
L’erbette al prato tornano ; 

Sol non rltorna a me 
La pace del mio cor.” 

“Iliad repeated my first phrase frequently, wlnm I heard in the 
ante-chamber Master Beppo singing it as valorously as possible. I beg- 
ged him to hush. After about an hour I heard him singing it on the 
stairway, so completely disfigured that I got out of humor with it.” 

“ How, then, is it that he sings so well to-day? What has happen- 
ed in his sleep?” 

I will exp'lain, maestro. I observed the lad had a strong and even 


C O N S U E L (). 


436 

an accurate voice, but sang falsely, from a bad ear, mind, or memory. 
£ amused myself by making him go through the scales, after your 
method, to see whether that would succeed in a person with the mu- 
sical faculty but partially developed. 

“ It will always succeed,” said Porpora. “ There is no such thing 
as a false voice and an ear which is practiced ” 

“ Precisely what I say,” said Consuelo, who was anxious to come to 
tine end. “ That is precisely what has happened — at the conclusion 
of the first lesson I had taught him what Reuter and all those Ger- 
mans never could have given him an idea of. I then sang my compo- 
sition to him, and for the first time he repeated it precisely correct. 
It was a perfect revelation to him.” ‘Ah! mademoiselle,’ said he, 
‘ had I been taught thus, perhaps I would have been able to learn like 
others. I will confess, though, that 1 never could understand the in- 
structions at St. Stephen's.’ ” 

“ He has then really been to that institution ? ” 

“ Yes; and was expelled with disgrace; you need only to ask Reu- 
ter. He will tell you that Joseph is a hard case, and that it is musi- 
cally impossible to form him.” 

“ Come hither you,” said Porpora to Beppo, w'ho stood behind the 
door with tears in his eyes. “ Place yourself beside me, and let me 
find out if you understood the lesson you received yesterday.” 

The malicious maestro then began, to teach Joseph the eletnents 
of music in the confused, pedantic and involved manner which is 
peculiar to the Germans. 

Had Joseph, who knew too much, not too fully comprehended the 
elements, in spite of Porpora’s efforts to make them obscure, and 
suffered his knowledge to appear, he would have been lost. He was 
shrewd enough to perceive the snare set for him, and exhibited such 
resolute stupidity, that after a long and obstinate contest, the maestro 
was completely satisfied. 

“ I see that your powers are very small,” said the latter as he arose 
and continued a deception of which the others were not the dupes. 
“ Take up your broom again, and if you wish to continue in my ser- 
vice, never try to sing.” 

After a lapse of about two hours, whether he was stimulated by a 
desire to return to an art which he had long neglected, Porpora re- 
membered that he was a singing master, and recalled Joseph to the 
stool. He explained to him the same principles, but now did so dis- 
tinctly, with that powerful and deep logic which moves and classifies 
all things; in one word, with that wonderful rapidity of which men 
of genius alone are capable. 

Now Haydn saw that he might appear to understand, and Porpora 
was enchanted by his triumph. Though the maestro taught him 
things he had long studied and knew as well as possible, this lesson 
was of a positively certain use to him; it taught him how to teach; 
and as at times when Porpora did not need him' he gave music lessons 
in the city, he resolved to make use of this excellent demonstration as 
a means of preserving liis patrons. 

‘‘ Well, maestro,” said he to Porpora, continuing to keep up the by- 
play until the end of the lesson, “ 1 like this music better than the 
other, and think lean learn it; but as for this morning’s lesson, I 
had rather go back to Saint Stephen’s than attempt to learn it.” 

“It is, though, what you were taught at that institution. Are there 
two musics? — no more than there are two Gods.” 


c o x\ s u E 1 . (). 437 

“ 1 bog your pardon, maestro; there is the music of Reuter, which 
tires me to death, and yours which does not ” 

“ I thank you for your compliment, Signor Beppo,” said Porpora, 
not at all displeased at the compliment. 

Thenceforth Porpora gave Haydn lessons, and they soon reached 
the lessons of Italian song and the first ideas of lyrical composition. 
He made such rapid progress that the maestro was at once charmed, 
mazed and surprised. When Consuelo saw his old suspicions about 
to spring up again, she advised Haydn how to act so as to dissipate 
them — a little apparent neglect, a feigned pre-occupation were some- 
times necessary to arouse the passion for imparting knowledge in 
Porpora’s mind, for it is always the case that something of resistance 
is required to arouse to the greatest energy any very powerful faculty. 
It often happened that Joseph was forced to pretend weariness and 
inattention, to obtain these precious lessons, at the idea even of neg- 
lecting which he trembled. The pleasure of contradiction and the 
desire of success contended in the ill-tempered and quarrelsome 
mind of the old professor. Beppo never pofited so much by his les- 
sons as when they were received clearly, eloquently, and ironically 
from the ill-ternper of Porpora. 

W^hile the house of Porpora was the scene of these seemingly friv- 
olous events, the consequences of which, however, have so much to 
do in the history of the art, since the genius of one of the most 
voluminous and celebrated composers of his time received its final 
expansion and completion, things exerting a more immediate influ- 
ence on the romance of Consuelo’s life were taking place. La Gorilla, 
who had better capacity for attending to her own business, gained 
ground every day, and perfectly recovered from her confinement, was 
making arrangements for a renewal of her engagement at the thea- 
tres of the court — a great virtuoso and a mediocre musician, she 
pleased the director and his wife much better than Consuelo. All 
knew the learned Porporina would bring exalted taste with her, and 
that in her mind there was no admiration for the operas of Maestro 
Holzbaiier and his wife’s talent. It was well known that great artists, 
W'hen badly seconded, and forced to become expressions of meagre 
thoughts, do not always preserve, when they are overpowered by vio- 
lence done their taste and conscience, that matter of routine, that 
perfect sang-froid which mediocre persons bear so cavalierly in the 
representation of the worst works amid the cacophony of composi- 
tions badly studied and badly understood by their companions. 

Even when, thanks to the miracles of kindness and talents, they 
triumph over those around them and their parts, the envious are not 
satisfied, the composer guesses at their inward suffering, and con- 
stantly dreads to see their factitious inspiration grow cold and en- 
danger his success. The public itself, amazed and troubled it knows 
not why, guesses at the monstrous anomaly of genius subjected to a 
vulgar idea, struggling in the narrow chains it has suffered to be cast 
around it, and almost sighs at the applause it receives. M. Holzbaiier, 
was well aware of the small estimate Consuelo placed on his music. 
She liad unfortunately exhibited her opinion on an excursion she had 
made when, being disguised as a boy, she fancied she had to do with 
one of those personages to be met with but once in a life-time. She 
spoke frankly, without any idea that some day or other her fate would 
be at the mercy of the artist friend of the canon. Holzbaiier had not 
forgotten the circumstance, and piqued to the very quick, though he 


438 


C O N S U E L O. 


retained his calmness, discretion and courtesy, he swore to prevent 
her success. As though he was unwilling that Porpora’s pupil should 
have any reason to find fault with his revenge and base susceptibility, 
he had told Consuelo of the affair of the breakfast at the presbytery. 
This rencontre did not seem to make any impression on the director 
who appeared to have nearly forgotten the features of the little Ber- 
toni, and who had not the least idea that the wandering singer and la 
Porporina were one and the same person. Consuelo could not but 
enter into a labyrinth of conjectures in relation to the conduct of 
Holzbaiier in regard to her. “ During my travels,” said she, “ was I 
so perfectly disguised, and did the arrangement of my hair so com- 
pletely change my face, that a man who looked at me with clear and 
penetrating eyes as his. could not recognise me? ” 

“ Count Hoditz did not know you when he saw you for the first 
time at the ambassador’s,” said Joseph, “ and perhaps had he not 
seen your note he never would have done so.” 

“ True, but the Count has such a haughty and contemptuous way 
of looking at people, that he really does not see them. 1 am sure he 
would have had no idea of my sex, but for the information he receiv- 
ed from Baron Trenck. On the other hand, Holzbaiier, when he first 
saw me here, and whenever he sees me, fixes on me those attentive 
and curious eyes which 1 observed at the Presbytery. For what 
reason does he always conceal that secret of a foolish adventure 
which might seriously injure my reputation, if he pleased to place a 
bad interpretation on it, and might perhaps really offend the maestro, 
who thinks I came to Vienna without difficulty, hindrance, or any 
romantic incidents, at the very time that Holzbaii deprecates my 
manner and method, and deserts me as much as possible to avoid the 
necessity of engaging me? He hates and repels me, yet though he 
has the most powerful arms in the world against my success, does not 
use them ” 

The explanation of this mystery Consuelo soon discovered. Before, 
though, we tell what happened to her, we must remind all that a pow- 
erful coterie was at work to supplant her. That Corilla was beautiful 
and coquettish; that the Prime Minister Kaunitz often saw her, and 
loved to intermingle in green-room cabals, and that Maria Theresa, to 
repose from her great cares, amused herself by gossip about such mat- 
ters with her Minister, laughed at the interest he took in such trifles, 
though she herself had sympathy with them, inasmuch as they ex- 
hibited to her in miniature a spectacle somewhat analogous to that 
witnessed in the three principal courts of Europe, each of which was 
governed by female intrigue— -her own, that of the Czarina, and that 
of Madame de Pompadour. 


CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

It is well known that Maria Theresa gave an audience every week 
to all who wished to speak with her— a paternally hypocritical cus- 
tom, which her son Joseph II. religiously observed, and which is yet 
observed in Austria. Besides, Maria Theresa williiiglv gave private 
audiences to all who wished to enter her service. Never was any 
s -\eieign more easily approached. 


CONSUELO. 


439 


Porpora obtained an audience, in order that the empress, being 
able to see the honest face of Consuelo distinctly, might perhaps con- 
ceive some decided sympathy for her; so at least the maestro hoped. 
Aware how her majesty insisted on good morals and discreet deport- 
ment, he said she would be struck by the candor and modesty which 
were so evident in every lineament of his pupil. They were intro- 
duced into one of the small rooms of the palace, into which an instru- 
ment had been placed, and into which, after about a quarter of an 
hour, the empress came. She had just received some distinguished 
persons and wore her court dress, as she appears on the coins bearing 
her effigy, in a brocade robe, with a crown on her head and a little 
Hungarian sabre by her side. In that dress she was truly beautiful, 
not w'ith the impressive and ideal nobility which her courtiers attrib- 
uted to her, but fresh, joyous, and with an open and happy face, a 
confiding and attractive bearing. This was indeed the queen, Maria 
Theresa, whom the magnates proclaimed with their drawn swords on 
a day of great enthusiasm. At'the first glance, though, she seemed a 
gr)od rather than a great sovereign, she had no coquetry, and the fa- 
miliarity of her manners denoted a calm mind without any feminine 
cunning. When one regarded her fixedly, and when she spoke ear- 
nestly, something of cold cunning was visible in her smiling and affable 
face. This cunning, though, was masculine and imperial, and seemed 
to partake not in the least of gallantry. 

“You will let me hear your pupil at once,” said she to Porpora, 
“I am already aware of her great knowledge, and I cannot forget 
how she pleased me in the oratorio of Betulia Liberata. I wish, 
though, first to converse privately with her. I have many questions 
to put to her, and as I rely on her frankness, I hope to be able to 
accord to her the protection she asks of' me.” 

Porpora left at once, reading in her Majesty’s face th.at she wished 
to be entirely alone with Consuelo. He went into the next gallery, 
where he suffered much with cold, for the court, ruined by the ex- 
penses of the war, was governed with great economy, and the char- 
acter of Mfyria Theresa was not at all in opposition to the exigencies 
of her position. 

When she was thus tete-a-tete with the daughter and mother of 
Caesars, the heroine of Germany, and the greatest woman then in 
Europe, Consuelo felt neither troubled nor intimidated. Whether 
lier artistic education made her thus indifferent to all the potnp 
which glittered around Maria Theresa, or because her noble and pure 
soul felt itself equal to all mortal grandeur, she waited with calmness 
of manner and serenity of mind until it should please her majesty to 
question her. 

The empress sat on a sofa, and pulled a little one side her baldric 
of gems, which pressed a little too much her round white shoulder, 
and spoke thus: 

“ I repeat to you, my child, that I place a high estimate on talent, 
and that I have no doubt of jmur knowledge and excellence in your 
art. You must, though, have been told tliat to me talent is nothing 
without good conduct; and that I esteem a pure and pious heart 
more highly than great genius.” 

Consuelo stood erect, and heai'd this exordiinn with great respect. 
It did not though seem correct to her to speak her own praises; and 
as she also had the greatest repugnance to speak of virtues she prac- 
tised in such simplicity, she waited for the empress to question her 


440 


C () N S U E L (). 


more directly about her principles and lier resolutions. It was tnen 
precisely the time to speak to her, in the phrase of a well-turned 
madrigal, about her angelic piety, her sublime virtues, and the impos- 
sibility of error with such an example before hei- eyes. Delicate 
minds are always afraid to insult a great character by proffering to 
them commonplace praise. Sovereigns, though, if not the dupes of 
this vulgar incense, are at least so used to it that they esteem it a 
mere matter of etiquette. Maria Theresa was amazed at the young 
girl’s silence; and in a manner less gentle and less encouraging, said: 

“ Now I know, my dear girl, that your conduct is not very exact, 
and that, not being married, you live on terms of great intimacy with 
a young man of your profession, the name of whom I do not recall 
just now.” 

“ 1 can make but one reply to your Imperial Majesty,” said Consuelo, 
with some excitement at this accusation: “ I have never committed 
one fault which would render me incompetent to bear the glance of 
your Majesty without modest pride and gratified joy.” 

Maria Theresa was struck with the proud expression which the face 
of Consuelo assumed. Five or six years before it would doubtless 
have occasioned pleasure and sympathy. Maria Theresa was royal at 
heart, and the exercise of her power had given a kind of intoxication 
to her mind which made her wish to see all bow and kneel to her. 
Maria Theresa wished to be the only free agent in her dominions, 
either as a queen or a woman ; she was then shocked at the proud 
smile and frank glance of the young girl, who was to her but as a 
worm, and with whom she wished to amuse herself, as people do with 
a slave, urged on from curiosity to talk. 

“ I have asked you, mademoiselle, the name of the young man who 
lives with you in the house of the Maestro Porpora,” said the empress 
with emotion. 

“ His name is Joseph Haydn,” said Consuelo with calmness. 

“Well, on account of his devotion to you he entered the service of 
Porpora as a valet de chambre. The maestro is ignorant of the young 
man’s motives, while you, who encourage him, are not.” 

“ Some one has slandered me to your Majesty. This young man 
never had any affection for me, (Consuelo thought she was speaking 
the truth.) I know that he loves another. If any deception is prac- 
tised towards my very estimable master, the motive is innocent and 
perhaps even praiseworthy. Love of art alone decided Joseph Haydn 
to enter the service of Porpora. Since your Majesty deigns to exam- 
ine the character of your humblest servants, and as it is evident that 
nothing escapes the cleai ness of your perception, I am sure you will 
do justice to my sincerity if you wish to examine my cause.” 

Marla Theresa had too much penetration not to distinguish the 
accents of truth. She had not yet forgotten the heroism of her by- 
gone days, though she was on that declivity of absolute power which 
gradually extinguishes even the noblest souls. 

“ Young girl, 1 think you true, and your words chaste; but I dis- 
cover in you too much pride, and a distrust of my maternal kindness, 
which makes me fear that I can do nothing for you.” 

“ If I have to do with the maternal kindness of Maria Theresa,” 
said Consuelo, touched by that phrase, the commonplace nature of 
which she was unfortunately ignorant of, “ I am ready to kneel to 
implore it, but — ” 

“ Go on my child,” said Maria Theresa, who, for some unknown 


C0N8UEL0. 441 

reason, was anxious to bend her strange visitor. “ Say what you 
think.” 

“ If though I have to do with imperial justice, I have nothing to 
confess; for a purer breath does not sully the atmosphere which even 
the gods breathe. I feel myself fully worthy of your protection.” 

“ Porporina,” said the empress, “ you are a woman of talent, and 
your originality, which would offend another, does you no injury in 
my mind. I have told you that I believe you frank, yet I know that 
you have something to confess. Why do you hesitate to do so? You 
love Joseph Haydn, and I do not doubt but that your liaison is pure. 
You love him for the very pleasure of seeing him frequently. Let 
me suppose your anxiety originates in the wish to witness his progress 
in music, — it makes you venture to expose your reputation, the most 
precious treasure with which a woman is endowed. You perhaps are 
afraid that your master and your adopted father, will not consent to 
your marriage with a poor and powerless artist. Perhaps also, for I 
will believe all you say, the young man loves another, and proud, as I 
see you are, you conceal your love, and sacrifice your good name, 
without any personal satisfaction from this devotion. Well, my dear 
child, while you have the opportunity which now presents itself, but 
which perhaps will do so no more, I would open my heart to my sov- 
ereign, and would say — ‘ To you, who can do anything, and wish to 
do good, I confide my fate. Remove all obstacles in the way of my 
prosperity. By one word you can change the wishes of my tutor and 
of him I love; — you can make me happy, restore to me the respect of 
the public, and place me in so honorable a position that I will be able 
to enter the service of the court.’ This is the confidence you should 
have in the maternal interest of Maria Theresa, and I regret that you 
have not.” 

“ I understand very well,” said Consuelo to herself, “ that from some 
caprice, from childish despotism, you wish the Zingarella to clasp your 
knees, because you see hers- do not tremble before you, and that this 
is a rare phenomenon. Well, you will not have that gratification, at 
least until I see you deserve this honor.” 

These and other reflections passed rapidly through her mind, while 
Maria Theresa was preaching to her. She said the fortune of Por- 
pora now depended on the "hazard of the die, on a mere imperial 
whim, and that she might, to secure her master’s prosperity, slightly 
humiliate herself. She" expected that Maria Theresa would immedi- 
ately appear great to her, so as to justify her adoration. 

When the empress had finished her homily, Consuelo replied— “ I 
will reply to all your Majesty wishes, if you deign to command me.” 

“Yes— speak! speak!” said the empress, piqued at her impassive 
countenance. 

I will then tell your Majesty that for the first time in my life have 
I learned that my reputation has been compromised by the presence 
of Joseph Haydn in the maestro’s house. I thought myself too in- 
sigjuficant to attract public attention, and had I been told, when com- 
ing to the imperial palace, that the empress herself thought of and 
censured me, I would have fancied that I dreamed.” 

Maria Theresa irlterrupted her, and. fancied that she saw some- 
thing of irony in this reflection of Consuelo. ‘‘You must not be 
astonished,” said she, in a rather emphatic tone, “that I interest my- 
self in the minutest details of the lives of those for whom I am re- 
pousible to God.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


442 

*‘We in.ay be astonished,” said Consuelo adroitly, “at what we 
admire. If great things are the most simple, they are, at least, rare 
enough to surprise us at first.” 

“You slould also,” added the empress, “comprehend the particu- 
lar interest I feel for you and all the artists whom I love to make the 
ornaments of my court. In every part of the world, the theatre is a 
school for scandal and an abyss of turpitude. 1 have a disposition 
praisewoithy at least, even though it be impracticable, to reinstate 
and to purify iti the mind of God and man, the profession which has 
been subjected to blind contempt, and even to religious persecution 
in other nations. While in France, the church shut its doors in their 
faces, I wish in my States to remove all obstacles. I have never ad- 
mitted, either into my Italian opera troupe, my company of French 
comedians, or the national theatre, any but persons of well-known 
morality, or who bona fide, have resolved to reform their conduct. 
You know my actors are married, that I even become sponsor for 
their children at the baptismal font, and resolve, by every possible 
favor, to encourage 'the legitimacy of births and the observance of the 
marriage tie.” 

“ Had we known that,” said Consuelo, “ we would have besought 
your majesty to be the god-mother of Angela, in my place. Your 
majesty sows to gather a good harvest, and had I a fault on my con- 
science, I would be glad to find in her a confessor, charitable as God’s 
own self. But ” 

“ Continue the subject of which you were speaking just now.” 

“ I was saying,” said Consuelo, “ that being ignorant of the blame 
attached to the residence of Joseph Hadyn, in our house, I was not so 
very devoted in exposing myself to it.” 

“ I understand,” said the empress; “ you deny all? ” 

“ How can I confess an untruth !” said Consuelo; “ I have neither 
any love for my master^s pupil, nor have I any wish to marry him. 
Even if the case were otherwise, I would not accept a hand offered 
me by imperial decree.” 

“Then you wish to remain unmarried?” said the empress, rising. 
“ Then I must tell you, it is a condition of life which, in the point of 
view of respectability, does not offer all the securities I require. It is 
also inconvenient for a young person to appear in certain roles, and 
represent certain passions, unless sanctioneil and protected by a hus- 
band. You might have triumphed over your opponent, Madame Cor- 
illa, of whom I liave heard much good, but who, by no means, pro- 
nounces Italian as well as you do. She, though, is a married woman 
and the mother of a family — a circumstance which gives her great ad- 
vantages, in case you persist in remaining in your present condition.” 

Consuelo could not refrain from muttering between her teeth, 
“Married!” She w'as completely overpowered at the idea of that 
virtuous — remarkably virtuous — person being preferred to her. 

“Yes, married! ” said the empress positively, and angry at the 
suspicion expressed in relation to her protegee. She gave birth to a 
child recently, which she has confided to a laborious ecclesiastic — the 
Canon * * * * — to receive a religious education. Certainly, that 
worthy person would not have taken charge of it, unless he knew the 
mother had a right to his esteem.” 

“ 1 am sure of it,” said Consuelo, a little consoled at the idea that 
the canon was approved of and not censured for his adoption ; she 
was, though, most indignant. 


(; l) N S U E L o. 


443 

“Thus history is written, and thus monarchs are instructed,” said 
she when the empress, with a stern air, had left the room, making as 
she passed but a slight inclination of the head. “ Well, something of 
good can always be extracted from misk)rtune, and tbe human errors 
have often a good result. The canon will not lose his prioiy — Gorilla 
will, if the empress interferes, become a virtuous woman, and I have 
not knelt to one who is no better than I am.” 

“Well!” said Porpora, with an anxious voice from the gallery in 
which he had been impatiently walking and twisting his hands; “I 
hope we have succeeded.” 

“ No, my kind maestro, we have failed.” 

“ How calmly you say this ! What the devil is the matter? ” 

“ You must not mention the devil; he has no chance to show him- 
self at court. When we are out of the palace I will tell you all.” 

“Well, what is the matter?” said Porpora impatiently, as soon 
as they had passed the ramparts. 

“ Do you remember, maestro, what we said of the Prime Minister, 
Kaunitz, when we left the Margrave’s? ” 

“ We said he was an old gossip. Has he foiled us? ” 

“ Certainly. Well, now I tell you her Majesty, the empress. Queen 
of Hungary, is also a gossip.” 


CHAPTER XC. 

CoNSUELO told Porpora all she thought he should know of the 
motives of Maria Theresa for the kind of disgrace to which she had 
been subjected. The rest would, perhaps, have irritated, disturbed, 
and offended the maestro with Joseph Haydn, without any benefit at 
all. She also decided not to tell her young friend what she concealed 
from Porpora. Rightly enough she contemned the vague accusations 
which she knew had been made by two or three enemies, to the em- 
press, and which had no public circulation. The ambassador Korner, 
to whom she confided every thing, approved of her following this 
course; and to prevent malice from obtaining possession of these 
seeds of slander, acted prudently and wisely. He persuaded Porpora 
to remain at his hoted with Consuelo, and Haydn entered the service 
of the ambassador, being admitted to the table of the private secreta- 
ries. Thus the old maestro was freed from want, and Joseph contin- 
ued to render him some personal services, which enabled him to see 
him often and to take his lessons. Consuelo was protected from all 
malicious insinuations. 

In spite of this, Gorilla was engaged instead of Consuelo for the 
Imperial Theatre. The latter had not been able to please Maria 
Theresa. This great queen, though daughing at the green-room in- 
trigues which Kaunitz and Metastasio half displayed to her in the 
most charming manner, wished to assume the role of an incarnate 
and crowned providence amid a troupe of strolling actors, who pro- 
fessed to her to be repentant sinners and converted demons. It may 
be imagined that among these hypocrites, who received little pensions 
and presents for their so-called piety, were found neither Caffariello, 
Farihelli, la Tesi, nor Madame Hasse ; none, in fine, of those great 


444 


C O N S U E L O. 


virtuosi Vienna sometimes heard, and who, from their high talent, 
were leniently treated. The lower parts, though, were always occu- 
pied by people who deigned to flatter the devout and moralizing 
humor of her majesty; who exhibited her intriguing disposition in 
every thing, and used all her art to bring about the marriage or con- 
version of an actor. We may read in the Memoirs of Favart, (that 
interesting romance of real life in the green-room,) the difficulty he 
had to find actresses and singers willing to go to Vienna. The court 
insisted on having them cheap, and besides, chaste as vestals. I think 
this furnisher of musical chastity — specially appointed by Maria 
Theresa — succeeded in finding one. This speaks volumes in favor of 
our operatic artists ! as was then said. 

Thus Maria Theresa wished to make even her amusement an edify- 
ing pretext for the display of the beneficent majesty of her character. 
Monarchs always place themselves in postures, and great monarchs, 
perhaps, more frequently than others. This Porpora frequently said, 
and he was not mistaken. The great empress was a zealous Catholic, 
an exemplary mother, and yet had no objections to talk to a prosti- 
tute, to catechise and call forth the strongest confessions, merely to 
have the glory of bringing a repentant Magdalen to the foot of the 
altar. The privy purse of her majesty, thus standing between vice 
and contrition, worked numerous and infallible miracles of grace. 
Thus Gorilla, weeping and crushed, if not in person, for I doubt if 
she could bend her stern character to such a comedy — but in the per- 
son of Kaunitz, who watched over her new-born virtue — was certain 
to triumph over a decided young girl, who was bold and resolute as 
the immaculate Consuelo. Maria Theresa loved no dramatic proteges 
that she could not say she had herself been the creator. Self-made 
and self-guarded virtues did not greatly interest her. She did not 
have that confidence her own virtue should have inspired her to be- 
lieve. The bearing of Consuelo also had piqued her, and she had 
found her calm and reflective. It was too arrogant and presumptuous 
conduct for a little gipsy to presume to be honest and virtuous with- 
out the empress; and when Kaunitz, therefore, who feigned to be very 
impartial towards each of the singers, asked if she had granted the 
prayer of “ the young girl,” the empress answered, “ I was not satis- 
fied with her principles; do not mention her again to me.” The 
voice, face, and even the name of la Porporina were completely for- 
gotten. 

One single word alone was necessary and sufficient to explain to 
Porpora the reason of his being out of favor. Consuelo told him 
that her position as an unmarried woman seemed inadmissible to the 
empress. “ But la Gorilla? ” said Porpora, who had known that the 
latter had been engaged. “Has her majesty found la Gorilla a hus- 
band? ” 

“As well as I could understand or devise the meaning of her ma- 
jesty’s words, la Gorilla here passes for a widow.” 

“ Ah, thrice ten, a hundred times a widow, in fact,” said Porpora, 
with a bitter smile. “ What will people say, though, when it is known 
what she is, and when begins another series of her numbeiless 
widowhoods? Arid the child they told me of, whom she left with an 
old canon near Vienna? That child she wished to present to Count 
Zustiniani, and whom Zustiniani advised her to confide to the pater- 
nal tenderness of Anzoleto. She will laugh at all this witli her com- 
panions; she will tell of it, as she is wont' in cynical terms, and will 


C O N S U E L o. 445 

laugh in the privacy of her dressing-room at the trick she has played 
tlie empress.” 

“ But if the empress learns the truth ? ” 

“She will not; sovereigns are surrounded, I imagine, by ears, which 
are mere portals to their own. Much remains outside, and nothing 
enters the sanctuary of the imperial ear but what the guardians 
suffer to pass. Besides,” said Porpora, ^ Gorilla will always have 
the resource of being able to confess. M. Kaunitz will always point 
out her penitence.” 

The poor maestro exhaled his bile in such bitter jests as the above. 
Pie became hopeless of being able to produce the opera lying in his 
desk — now completed — especially as it was for a libretto not by Metas- 
tasis, who had a monopoly of the poetry of the court. He was not 
without a presentiment of the little tact Consuelo had displayed in 
captivating the good graces of the empress. He could not, therefore, 
repress his ill humor. As an additional misfortune, the Venetian 
ambassador, in an enthusiasm of pride and pleasure at the develop- 
ment of the musical intelligence of Haydn, one day told him all the 
ftruth about the young man, and showed him his beautiful attempts 
In musical composition, which began to be circulated and to be talked 
of by amateurs. The maestro had been deceived, and became much 
enraged. Luckily, though, he did not suspect Consuelo of being the 
accomplice of the ruse. Korner, seeing the storm he had created, 
hastened to prevent his suspicions by a good lie. He could not, 
though, prevent Haydn from being banished for some days from the 
maestro’s room. All the ascendancy which his protection and his ser- 
vices gave him over the latter were required to restore him to favor 
Porpora, though, for a long time was offended with him. and made 
him do penance for his offence by a more minute discharge of his du- 
ties as a valet than was necessary, since the valets of the embassy 
were at his orders. Haydn did not refuse, and by means of gentle- 
ness, patience, and devotion, being constantly exhorted and encour- 
aged by Consuelo, was always faithful and attentive to his lessons, 
fitially disarming the rude professor, whom he induced to impart to 
him all he had the wish or capacity to learn. 

The genius of Haydn dreamed of a different route from any yet 
attempted, and the future author of the symphony confided to Con- 
suelo his ideas in relation to the development of its instrumental 
arrangement in the most gigantic proportions. These gigantic pro- 
portions, which seem to us now so simple and natural, must have 
seemed as much the utopia of a fool, as the revelation of a new era 
of genius. Joseph yet mistrusted himself, and not without trepida- 
tion confessed to Consuelo the terror which tormented him. Consu- 
elo, too, was at first much afraid. Until that time the instrumenta- 
tion played but a secondary part, and when isolated from the human 
voice, had no complication. There was, though, so much calmness 
and perseverance in her young associate — he exhibited in his whole 
conduct so much real modesty, and so calm a research after the truth 
— that Consuelo, unable to think him presumptuous, considered him 
prudent, and encouraged him in his plans. Just then Haydn com- 
posed a serenade for three instruments, which, with his friends, he 
performed beneath the wdndows of the dilettanti, the attention of 
whom he was anxious to attract to his works. He began with Por- 
pora, who, not knowing the name of the composer, heard with pleas- 
ure, and clapped his hands without reserve. On this occasit^n, the 


CONSUELO. 


446 

ambassador, who was in the secret, said nothing, and did not betray 
the young composer. Porpora was unwilling that one taking lessons 
in plain song should be distracted by other woi ds. 

At this time Porpora received a letter from tlie admirable contralto, 
Hubert, whom he had taught, and who bore the name of Porporino. 
That artist was in the service of Frederick the Great. He was not, 
like the professor’s other pupils, infatuated with his own merit, so as 
to forget his obligations to Porpora. From him the Porporino had 
imbibed a kind of talent he had never attempted to modify, and which 
had always succeeded. He used to sing in an ample, pure style, with- 
out ornament, and without deserting the correct method of his mas- 
U'r. He was particularly admirable in the adagio. Porpora, there- 
fore, had a liking for him very difficult to be concealed in the presence 
of the fanatical admirers of Farinelli and Caffariello. He did not 
deny the skill, the brilliancy, and the suppleness of those great virtu- 
osi, as being able to give more eclat and to delight more suddenly an 
audience greedy of difficulties. He said, though, to himself, that Por- 
porino made no sacrifices to bad taste, and that people were never 
weary of hearing him. It really appears the Prussians never did, for 
he shone there during the whole of his musical existence, more than 
forty years, dying at a very advanced age. 

This letter of Hubert told Porpora that his music was highly appre- 
ciat(?d at Berlin, and that if he would join him, he would use every 
effort to have his new compositions received and admitted. He ad- 
vised him to leave Vienna, a city in which the artists were constantly 
involved in the cabals of cliques, and to obtain a distinguished female 
singer who would appear with himself in some of Porpora’s own 
wm*ks. He spoke highly of the king’s enlightend taste, and of the 
honorable protection he gave musicians. “ If this plan suit your 
views, reply at once what are your pretensions, and three months 
hence I will promise you an engagement, at least sufficient to procure 
you a peaceable life. As for glory, my dear instructor, do you but 
write, and we will sing so as to cause you to be appreciated eveu as 
far as Dresden. 

At this last phrase Porpora erected his ears like an old war-horse. 
It was an allusion to the triumphs of Hasse and his singers at Dres- 
den. The idea of equalling his rival in the north of Germany was 
grateful to the maestro, and he at once conceived an aversion to Vi- 
enna, the Viennese, and the court. He at once replied to the Por- 
porino, authorising him to make arrangements for him at Berlin. He 
made his ultimatum small as possible in order to prevent disappoint- 
ment. He spoke in the highest terms of la Porporina, saying she was 
his sister, both in education and in geniiie, as well as by name. He 
urged him to make the best possible terms for her. All this he did 
without consulting Consuelo until after the letter was gone. 

The poor girl was terrified at the very mention of Prussia, and the 
name of Frederick the Great made her shudder. Since the affair of 
the deserter she had always looked on the celebrated monarch as an 
ogre and vampire. Porpora complained not a little at the disregard 
she showed at the idea of a new engagement, arid as she could not 
tell him the story of Carl and the promises of Mayer, she looked down, 
and suffered him to scold away. 

When she found time to think, though, she found some consolation 
in the idea. It postponed her return to the stage, for the Porporino 
might fail, and at all events asked three months to conclude the ai> 


C O N S U E L O, 


447 


ningement. Till then she might dream of the love of Count Albert, 
and resolve herself to return it. If she saw a probability of uniting 
herself to liim, or if she did not, she might with honor and frankness 
keep the resolution she had formed, to think of him with distraction 
and without constraint. 

Before she announced the news to her hosts at Riesenberg, she re- 
solved to wait until Count Christian had replied to her letter. The 
expected reply did not come, and Consuelo began to be afraid that old 
Rudolstadt was become dissatisfied with the contemplated marriage, 
and was trying to induce Albert to renounce it. One day, however, 
she received a letter by the hands of Keller, which ran as follows: 

“You promised to write to me. You did so, when you indirectly 
advised my father of the difficulties of our present situation. 1 s<‘e 
you wear a burden, to relieve you of which would be a crime in me. 

I see that my good father is terrified at the consequences of your sub- 
mission to Porpora — though I am not now afraid of anything — be- 
cause you exhibit to my father terror and regret for the course you 
have been led to take. This satisfies me that you will not w ith incon- 
sideration condemn me to eternal despair. No, you will not break 
your word ; you will try to love me. What matters it to me wheie 
you are, or how you are engaged, or in what rank the respect or prej- 
udice of men may hold you. or even the obstacles whicli keep you from 
me, if you bid me hope or despair? I suffer much, certainly, but can 
bear more without failing, until you shall have extinguished all hope. 

“ I w ill wait, for I have learned to do so. Do not be afraid to pain 
me, by taking time to reply to me. Do not wTite to me under the im- 
pression of fear or pity, with which I will have nothing to do. Take 
my fate into your heart, my soul into yours; and when the time is 
come, wdietlier in a convent cell, or on the stage of a theatre, tell me 
never to annoy you again, or, to come to join you. I shall either lie 
at your feet, or be mute for ever. ALCEur.” 

“Noble Albert,” said Consuelo. as she placed the paper to her lips, 
“ I feel that I love you. It would be impossible not to do so, and I will 
not liesitate to say so. I wish to reward you by a promise of con- 
stancy and devotion.” 

At once she sat down to write. The sound of Porpoi a’s voice made 
her at once hide the letter in lier bosom, as well as the answer slie was 
about to w'rite to Albert. During the wliole day slie could not be 
alone for one moment. It seemed that the old growler guessed at her 
wish to be alone, and took care that she should not. Night came, 
Consuelo became calm, and understood that so grave a determination 
demanded a longer test of her own feelings. It was necessary that 
Albert should. not be exposed to the disastrous consequences of a re- 
action on her own emotions. She re-read his letter a linndi'ed times, 
and saw that he apprehended botli the pain of a refusal and a pre- 
cipitate promise. She resolved to think for some days: Albert him- 
self seemed to insist on it. 

The life Consuelo led at the embassy was calm and regular, lo 
avoid all misinterpretations, Korner never visited her in her room, 
and never, in even Porpora’s company, invited her to his. He only 
met her in the apartments of Madame Wilhelmina, where lie could 
speak to her without compromising her, and where, to oblige the com- 
pany, she often sang. Joseph was often sent for to accompany her. 


C O N S U E L O. 


448 


Caffariello came thitlier frequently, and Count Hoditz sometimes. 
Metastasio came rarely. All regi-etted that Consuelo had failed; but 
neither of the three dared to strive for her. Porpora was indignant, 
and found it very difficult to conceal it. Consuelo made every effort 
to soothe him, and make him associate with men, in spite of their 
weakness. She excited him to work, and thanks to her, from time to 
time, regained his hope and enthusiasm. She encouraged him only 
in the pique which induced him not to take her into society, and not 
to make her sing. Happy at the idea of being forgotten by the great, 
whom she had received vvith terror and repugnance, she gave herself 
up to serious study and deep reverie, cultivated the friendship (now 
become calm and holy) of Haydn, saying every day, as she attended 
to the wants of the good maestro, that, if nature had not provided 
for her a life without emotion and movement, it had least of all made 
her ambitious and fond of change. She had, indeed, not yet dreamed 
of a more animated existence, of more lively joy, and of more expan- 
sive and vast intellectual pleasures. The pure woild of art. though, 
which she had created for herself, was so noble and sympathetic, 
never manifesting itself except under unpleasant circumstances, that 
she preferred an obscure and retired life, gentle affections, and a labo- 
rious solitude. 

Consuelo had no new reflections to make, in relation to Rudolstadt’s 
offer. She could entertain no doubt in relation to his generosity, and 
the unalterable holiness of the love of the son, and the kind indul- 
gence of the hither. She liad not to inquire into her reason or her 
conscience. Both spoke in favor of Albert. On this occasion she 
had, without any difficulty, triumphed over her memory of Anzoleto. 
Victory over one passion enables us to subdue others. She, there- 
fore, feared no influence, and henceforth would triumph over all 
other temptations. 

Passion, however, did not speak in her heart in favor of Albert 
with any power. It was, therefore, still her duty to question that 
heart, in the depth of which a mysterious calm reflected the idea of a 
perfect love. Sitting at her window, the naive girl often saw the 
young people of the city passing down the street. Bold students, no- 
ble lords, melancholy artists, proud cavaliers, were often the objects 
of a serious and chaste examiriation, which in its character was 
almost infantine. 

“How,” said she, “ is my heart — frivolous or chaste? Am I capa- 
ble of loving madly and irresistibly at first sight, as many of my 
country-women of la Scuola confessed or boasted before me to each 
other? Is love a magic flash, which overpowers our nature, and 
turns us violently from the affections we protested to keep, in the 
days of our innocence? Is there among those men who look up to 
my window one face which troubles or fascinates me? That one, 
with his tall form and lofty step seems to me more noble and hand- 
some than Albert? The other, with his fine hair ajul Inandsome 
dress, effaces the image of my betrothed? Would T be the gaily 
decked lady I see in yonder coach, which the noble-looking gentleman 
now hands her fan and gloves? Which of all these things troubles 
or annoys me, or makes me blush? No — no, indeed! Speak, my 
heart — speak I— I appeal to you. I let you go at liberty. I scarcely 
know you, 1 have had so little time to consult you since my birth. I 
have not been used to contradiction. I abandoned to you the em- 
pire of my life, without examining the propriety of your impulses. 


CONSUELO. 


449 


You have been crushed, poor heart; and now that conscience has 
subdued you, you dare live no longer ; you know not what to say. 
Reply! arouse yourself, and make your choice! Well, you are silent. 
You will not choose amid what is open to you. No; you love Anzo- 
leto no more? No, no; — then Albert calls you. You seem to say 
yes. And every day Consuelo left her window with a smile on her 
lips, and a calm and gentle light burning in her heart. 

After the end of a month she wrote to Albert, with a calm head, 
very slowly, and almost feeling her pulse at every letter her hand 
traced : — 

“ I love you only. I am almost sure that I love you. Now, let me 
dream of the possibility of our union. Dream of it yourself, also. 
Let us contrive together on means neither to distress your father nor 
your mother, nor to become egotistical in becoming happy.” 

In this letter she enclosed a brief note to Count Christian, in which 
she told him how calmly she lived, and told him of the respite which 
the new plans of Porpora had left her. She requested that a means 
might be found to soothe Porpora, and asked for a reply in a month. 
She would then have one month to prepare the maestro, before the 
matters in Berlin should be decided on. 

Consuelo, having sealed the two notes, put them on the table, and 
w^ent to sleep. A delicious calm had filled her soul, and never for a 
long time had she enjoyed so calm and delicious a sleep. It w'as late 
when she awoke. She was anxious to see Keller, who had promised 
to come to see her at eight o’clock. It was nine, and as she dressed 
herself, Consuelo saw with terror that the letter was not where she 
had placed it. She looked every where for it, and went to see if Kel- 
ler W'as not waiting for her in tlie antechamber. Neither Keller nor 
Haydn w'ere there; and, as she was about to return to look again for 
it in her room, she saw' Porpora approach her and look sternly at her. 

“ What are you looking for? ” he said. 

“ A sheet of music I have lost.” 

“ That is not true; you are looking for a letter.” 

“ Maestro ! ” 

“ Be silent, Consuelo, you know not how to deceive as yet. Do not 
learn to do so.” 

“ Maestro, what have you done with that letter?” 

“ Given it to Keller ” 

“ Why — why did you?” 

“ Because h^ came for it. You sent for him yesterday. You do 
not know how to deceive, Consuelo, or I have a more acute ear than 
you think.” 

“ Again,” said Consuelo, w'ith emotion, “ I ask you, what you have 
done W’ith the le-tter? ” 

“ I have told you. Do not ask me again. I think it very wrong 
that a young girl, honest as I think you are, should give letters to her 
hair-dresser. To prevent this man from entertaining an erronecus 
idea of you, I gave him the letters calmly, and bade liim sen^ hem 
for you. He will not think you are concealing any guilty secret from 
you adopted father.” 

“ Maestro, you are right — you did well. Forgive me.” 

“ I do ; let us talk of the matter no more.” 

“ And— did you read the letter? ” asked Consuelo, with a timid and 
suppliant expression. 

“ For w’hat do you take me? ” said Porpora, angrily. 

28 


450 


CONSUELO. 


“ Forgive me,” said Consnelo, kneeling before him, and seeking to 
take his hand ; “ let me open my heart to you ” 

‘‘ Not a word more,” said Porpora, repelling her. He then left the 
room, shutting the door loudly as he passed from it. 

Consuelo hoped that this first storm having passed by, she might, by 
a decisive explanation, appease him. She felt that she had power 
enough to tell him all she thought, and flattered herself that she 
would hasten the issue of her plans: he, however, would hear no ex- 
planation, and his severity in relation to that was unaltei-able. Be- 
sides, he testified as much kindness to her as usual ; and thencefoi th 
exhibited more appaient mirth and gratification. From this, Consu- 
elo conceived a good augury, and waited impatiently for the answer 
fiom Riesenberg. 

Porpora had not read — he had burned Consuelo’s letters without 
reading them — but had substituted for them another to Count Chris- 
tian. He thought this prudent step had saved his pupil and preserved 
old Rudolstadt from a greater sacrifice than he was capable of. He 
fancied he had acted towards him like a faithful friend, and towards 
Consuelo like an energetic and kind father. He did not think he 
might have given Count Albert a death blow. He thought Consuelo 
had exaggerated matters — that the young man was neither so much 
in love nor so ill as they fancied. In fine, like all old men, he thought 
that love passes away, and that it kills no one. 


CHAPTER XCI. 

Expecting an answer which would never come, for Porpora had 
burned her letter, Consuelo continueii her calm and studious life. 
Her presence attracted to Madame Wilhelmina’s some very distin- 
guished persons, whom she was pleased to see frequently. Among 
others, was Baron Frederick Trenck, with whom she felt a tone of 
sympathy. He had tact enough the first time he saw her, not to ap- 
proach her like an old acquaintance, but to ask for an introducticm, 
after he had heard her sing, as any delighted auditor might do. When 
she met this brave and handsome young man, who had so bravely 
rescued her from Mayer and his band, the impulse of Consuelo was to 
otter him her hand. The baron, who did not wish her to commit any 
imprudence on his account, took her hand respectfully, as if he were 
about to lead her back to her chair, and to thank her for her kindness, 
pressed it gently. She afterwards heard from Joseph, who gave him 
music lessons, that he always asked after her with interest, and spoke 
of her with admiration ; but that, from a feeling of propriety, he never 
made any allusion to the motives of her disguise, the reasons for her 
adventurous voyage, and the nature of their feelings to each other. 

”1 do not know,” said Joseph, “ what he thinks, but I assure you 
he speaks of no woman in the wHJild "with more respect.” 

” If that be so,” said Consuelo, ‘-I authorise you to tell him all 
our history, and all my career, without, of course, mentioning the 
family of Rudolstadt. I wish to possess all the esteem of that man, to 
whom we are indebted for our lives, and who has, in eveiy respect, 
acted so nobly towards me.” 


CONSUELO. 


451 


^ A few weeks afterwards, Von Trenck, having terminated his mis- 
sion at Vienna, was suddenly recalled by Frederick, and came one 
day to the embassy to bid adieu to Korner. Consuelo was coming 
down the stairway, to go out, and met him in the portico. As they 
were alone, he took her hand and kissed it tenderly. 

“ Permit me,” said he, “ to express for the first and probably for the 
last time, in my life, the feelings with which my breast is filled. It 
needed not for Beppo to tell me your history, to be filled with vene- 
ration for you. There are faces which never deceive us, and one 
glance sufficed to enable me to see in you great power and nobleness 
of heart. Had I known at Passau that Joseph was so little on his 
guard, I would have protected you from the rudeness of Count 
Hoditz, the intentions of whom I could not but foresee, in spite of 
my efforts to make him understand that he toiled in vain, and would 
make himself ridiculous. Besides, Hoditz himself told me that you 
laughed at him, and he is as much obliged to you as possible for hav- 
ing kept his secret. I shall never forget the romantic adventure 
which procured me the happiness of your acquaintance, and which I 
shall never cease to reckon among the happiest events of my life, 
even though it cost me my future success and fortune.” 

“ Think you, then, it is likely to have such results? ” 

“I trust not. Yet, in Prussia anything may happen.” 

“You make me tremble at the King of Prussia. But do not 
think, baron, that it is at all impossible that ere long I shall meet you. 
I may be engaged at Berlin.” 

“ Indeed,” said Trenck, and his face suddenly lighted up with an 
expression of joy. “ God grant that this plan may be realized. At 
Berlin I can serve you, and you may rely on me as on a brother. 
Yes, Consuelo, I feel a brother’s affection for you; and, were I un- 
trammeled, would, perhaps, be unable to defend myself from a yet 
tenderer sentiment. You, too, are not free; and solemn eternal ties 
do not permit me to envy the happy gentleman who may ask for your 
hand. Whoever he be, madam, rely on the fact, that if he pleases, I 
will be his friend ; and if he does not, that I will be his champion 
against the prejudices of the world. . . . Alas! Consuelo, I also 
have a terrible barrier between her I love and myself. The person, 
though, whom you love is a man, and can break down the barrier; 
while the one who is dear to me is a woman, without power, strength, 
or liberty to do so.” 

“ With her, then, will it be impossible for me to do anything in 
your behalf,” said Consuelo. “ For the first time, I regret the impo- 
tence of my situation.” 

“Who knows?” said the baron, anxiously. “You may, perhaps, 
be more powerful than you think; at least, to lessen the horror of 
our separation. Will you not encounter some danger for me? ” 

“ With the same pleasure that you exposed your life in my behalf.” 

“ WTell — I rely on you. Kemember this promise, Consuelo. Per- 
haps I may recal this to you some day, unexpectedly.” 

“ At whatever hour of my life you may do so, I will not be unmind- 
ful of it,” said she, giving him her hand. 

“ Well,” said he, “give me some token, some valueless pledge, that 
may, when the time comes, remind you of it: I have a presentiment 
that great contests await me, and a time may come, when my signa- 
ture may compromise her and you.” 

“ Will you take this sheet of music I was about to take to a pupil 


CONSUELO, 


452 

of the maestro ? I can easily get another, and on this I will make a 
mark to enable me, some day, to recognise it.” 

“ Why not? A sheet of music is, perhaps, the thing most likely to 
be sent without awakening suspicion. That it may be of use to me 
more than once, I will separate the leaves. Make a mark on each of 
the pages.” 

Consuelo, leaning on the staircase, wrote the name of Bertoni on 
each leaf. The baron folded it up and carried it away, after having 
promised our heroine eternal friendship. 

At this time, Madame Tesi became sick, and the performances at 
the Imperial Theatre were on the point of being suspended, for she 
had the most iinportant roles. La Gorilla had a right to insist on re- 
placing her. She had great success both with the court and the peo- 
ple. Her beauty and coquetry turned the heads of all those simple 
German lords, no one observing that her voice was rather hoarse and 
that she was rather epileptic. Every handsome woman on the stage 
seemed a great artist to them. Her snowy shoulders uttered wonder- 
ful notes, her round and voluptuous tones sang always correctly, and 
her superb attitudes gave wonderful expression to the music. In 
spite of the pure musical taste, which was so highly extolled, all felt 
the influence of the fascination of her eye, and Gorilla prepared in her 
boudoir many minds to be completely dragged away upon the stage. 

She then presented herself boldly to sing ad interim, the roles of la 
Tesi ; the difficulty was to find some one to replace her in her own. The 
seedy voice of Madame Holzbaiier put her out of the question. It 
was therefore necessary to employ Gorilla or put up with something 
very commonplace. Porpora made the most unearthly efforts. Me- 
tastasio, extremely disconcerted with the Lombard pronunciation of 
Gorilla, and indignant at the effort she made to depi-ess all other roles 
than lier own, (contrary to the spirit of the poem, and destroying all 
dramatic effect,) did not conceal his dissatisfaction, and his sympathy 
for the silent and intelligent Porporina. Gaffariello was very assidu- 
ous in his court to Madame Tesi, and she, cordially detesting Gorilla 
for having disputed with her the sceptre of beauty, was strenuous in 
favor of the employment of Gonsuelo. Holzbaiier was anxious that 
his management should succeed; but, terrified at the ascendancy 
Porporina would soon acquire if she had even the right of entree into 
the green-room, did not know which way to look. The good conduct 
of Consuelo had gained her so many friends, that it would be difficult 
to impose any longer on the empress. In consequence of all these 
circumstances, offers were made to Consuelo. By offering a scandal- 
ously low price, it was hoped that she would be induced to decline 
them. Porpora, though, accepted them at once, as usual, without 
consulting her. One fine morning, therefore, Consuelo found herself 
engaged for six representations, without being able to decline, and 
without knowing why. After patiently waiting six weeks, she received 
no letter from the Rudolstadts. She was hurried by Porpora to the 
representation of Metastasio’s Antigone, the music by Hasse. 

Consuelo had already studied her part with Porpora. It was doubt- 
less most disagreeable to the latter to teach his pupil the music of a 
rival composer, the most ungrateful of his pupils, and the rival he 
hated worse than any: it was necessary, though, to do so for the pur- 
pose of opening the door to his own compositions, and Porpora was 
loo conscientious a professor, and too honest an artist, not to be zeal- 
ous and careful as possible. Consuelo assisted him so zealously that 


CONSUELO. 


463 


he was at once delighted and distressed. In spite of her wishes, she 
thought Basse’s music magnificent, and her soul seemed more delight- 
ed in the tender and passsonate strains of the Sassone, than in the 
often naked and cold grandeur of Porpora. Accustomed, when she 
studied the other great masters, to give way to her own enthusiasm, 
she was now forced to repress it, when she saw the sadness of his 
brow, and his reverie after the lesson. When she went on the stage 
to rehearse with Caffariello and Gorilla, though she knew her part 
very well, she felt such excitement that she could scarcely open the 
scene of Ismene Berenice, beginning: 

“ No tutto ; O Berenice, 

Tu non aprl il tuo cor,” etc. 

To which Gorilla replied: 

E ti par poco 

Quel che sai de’ niiel casi? ” 

At that place Gorilla was interrupted by a burst of laughter from 
Gaffariello. Turning round, with her eyes sparkling with rage, she 
said : — 

“ What is it that amuses you so much?” 

“ You are right, my Berenice,” said Gaffariello, laughing louder. 
“ You could say nothing more true.” 

“Do the words amuse you?” said Holzbaiier, wdio would have 
liked to tell Metastasio that the tenor laughed at his voice. 

“ The words are beautiful,” said Gaffariello drily, for he knew pre- 
cisely the state of affairs. “ They suit the case, however, so exactly 
that I could not but laugh.” 

He again laughed as he repeated to Porpora : — 

» E ti par poco 

Quel che sai di tanti casi? ’’ 

Gorilla saw this criticism referred to her morals, and, trembling 
with anger, hatred and fear, felt as if she conld have torn Gonsuelo’s 
eyes out. Her face was, however, so calm and gentle, that one dared 
not. Besides, in the dim light which fell on the stage, she paused as 
if she were struck with vague reminiscences, and strange teri-ors. 
She had never seen her by daylight, nor so closely, while at Venice. 
Amid the pains of childbirth, she had indistinctly seen the little Zin- 
gara Bertoni hovering confusedly around her, and did not understand 
her devotion. She now sought to recal her memories; but not suc- 
ceeding in doing so, she stood for a moment under the influence of 
an uneasy sensation, which clung to her during the whole rehearsal. 
The manner in which Gonsuelo sang her part contributed not a little 
to her ill humor, and the presence of her old master, Porpora, who, 
like a stern judge, heard her in silence, and almost in contempt, be- 
came a real punishment to her. Holzbaiier was not less mortified, 
when the maestro said his accompaniments cut across the voice, and 
he must have known it, having been present at the rehearsals Hasse 
had himself dii ected at Dresden, when the opera was first put on the 
sta^^e The Tieed he had of a good adviser made him conceal his ill 
humor, and forced him to be silent. He conducted the whole re- 
liearsal, taught each one what to do, and even corrected Gafl^ariello, 
who pretended to submit, to induce others to do so. Gaffariello had 
no object but to mortify the impertinent rival of Tesi, and he was 
willinf^ to do anything for that gratification— even to submit and to 


454 


CONSUELO. 


be modest. Artists and diplomats are, in this particular, alike in the 
theatre and in the council chamber — the most beautiful, and the re* 
verse, find their causes in the most frivolous and trifling matters. 

When she returned, after the rehearsal, Consuelo found Joseph 
most mysteriously joyful ; and when they could speak together, she 
learned that the good canon had come to Vienna, and had immedi- 
ately asked for his dear Beppo, of whom, while eating a good break- 
fast, he had asked a thorsand things about that dear lad, Bertoni. 
They had contriveil a way for him to become acquainted with Porpo- 
ra, that he might see her openly, and without concealment. On the 
next day, the canon procured an introduction, as a protector of Jo- 
seph Haydn, a great admirer of Porpora, and under the pretence of 
coming to thank him f tr the lessons he had given to his young friend, 
Consudo seemed to speak to him for the first time; and at night, the 
priest, Porpora and his two pupils all dined with the canon. Without 
pretending to a stoicism, which was not tlie want of musicians of any 
class of that age, Porpora could not but form a sudden affection for 
the good canon, who had so excellent a table, and was so excellent an 
admirer of his books. After dinner they had music, and subsequent- 
ly they met every day. 

This somewhat atoned for the uneasiness created by the silence of 
Albert. The canon loved enjoyments of a chaste, but at the same 
time, liberal character, and was, in relation to some matters, a fop, 
and in others just and enlightened. He was, in fact, an excellent 
friend, and a perfectly amiable man. His society animated and 
strengthened the maestro, whose manners became more gentle; and, 
consequently, the in-door life of Consuelo more agreeable. 

One day, when they had no rehearsal, (it was the day before the 
representation of Antigone,) Porpora had gone into the country with 
a friend, the canon proposed to his young friends to visit the priory, 
to surprise those he hed left there, and to ascertaiii, by falling like a 
bomb in the garden, if Angela was well taken care of, and if the gar- 
dener neglected the volkameria. The proposition was agreed to, and 
the canon’s carriage filled up with pates, (for one could not travel four 
leagues without an appetite.) They came to their destination after 
having made a little detour, and left the carriage, in order to make the 
surprise more complete. 

The volkameria was in perfect condition ; it was warm weather, 
and the roots were fresh. It had ceased to flower since the cold had 
set in, but its leaves hung without languor over the trunk. The 
hedge was well trimmed, and the blue chrysanthemums braved the 
winter, and seemed to smile under their glass shelters. Angela, at the 
bieast of the nurse, was smiling also when she was excited by ca- 
resses, and the canon made up his mind that it was wrong to force 
her good humor, for to compel these frail creatures to smile "often dis- 
poses them to a loo nervous temperament. 

They were all enjoying themselves in the garden house, the canon, 
wrapped up in his fun ed i eli>se, was warming his shins before a largo 
fire of dried branches and pine cones, Joseph was playing with the 
fine children of the gardener’s handsome wife, and Consuelo sat in the 
centre of the room, wit i Angela in her arms, and was gazing at her 
with a mingled expression of tenderness and sorrow. It seemed to 
her that this child was lather hers than another s, and that a myste- 
rious fatality u iih'd its delicate existence to her own, when the door 
suddetily opei e ', and laCoiilla stood before her like an apparition 
evoked by her melancholy reverie. 


C O N S U E I O. 


455 

For the first time since the day of her delivery, la Gorilla had felt, 
if not a feeling of love, an attack of maternal remorse, and she came 
secretly to see her child. She knew that the canon was at Vienna; 
and coming after him with the interval of half an hour, and not find- 
ing any marks of carriage-wheels near the priory, in consequence of 
his having made a detour before he came to the house, she entered 
furtively and unseen until she came to the gardener’s house, where 
Angela’s nurse lived, (she had informed herself of all thisj. She had 
laughed at the good canon’s embarrassment and Christian resignation, 
but was utterly ignorant of the part Consuelo had taken in the mat- 
ter. With mingled surprise and terror, then, she saw her rival, and 
not knowing nor dai'ing to think what child she thus petted, she was 
about to turn on her heel and fly. Consuelo, though, by an instinc- 
tive movement, had clasped the child to her bosom, as the partridge 
hides her young when the kite hovers above them. Consuelo, who 
now was at the theatre, and who the next day might describe the 
under-plot of the drama she was playing, and even describe her man- 
ner, held her overpowered and fascinated, as if by a spell, nailed to 
the centre of the room. 

La Gorilla, though, was too consummate an actress not to regain 
her presence of mind in a very short time. It was her plan to pre- 
vent a humiliation by an insult; and to get herself in voice, began 
her part by an apostrophe in tJie Venetian dialect, the tone of which 
is short and hissing. 

“Eh! pardieu! la Zingarella — this house seems a foundling hospi- 
tal. Have you also come to seek for, or to leave one of yours ? I see 
we run the same chances and risks. Our two children, beyond doubt, 
have the same father, our adventures dating from Venice at the same 
time. And I see with compassion that it was not to rejoin you as I 
thought that the handsome Anzoleto so brusquely abandoned me in 
the midst of his engagement at Venice last season.” 

“ Madam,” said Consuelo, very pale, but very calm, “ had I been so 
unfortunate as to be to Anzoleto what you were, I would at least 
have had the reward of being a mother, (they must feel,) and my 
child woidd not be here.” 

“Ah! I understand,” said Gorilla, with a sombre glare in her eyes; 

“ he would have been at the villa Zustiniani; you would have been 
able to do what I could not, persuade the dear count that honor 
forced him to recognise it. You had not, though, what you call the 
misfortune of being the mistress of Anzoleto, and Zustiniani left no 
proofs of his love with you. They say Joseph Haydn, Porpora’s pu- 
pil, consoled you for all your misfortunes, and, beyond doubt, is the 
father of the child you hold in your arms.” 

“ This child, madam, is your own,” said Joseph, for he understood 
Italian very well, and advanced between Consuelo and Gorilla, so that 
the latter slirardc back. “ Joseph Haydn assures you of the fact, hav- 
ing been present at its birth.” 

The face of Haydn, which Gorilla had never seen since that unfor- 
tunate day, recalled all the events which she had before atterppted to; 
The Zingara Bertoni appeared before her as the Zingarella ConsueW. 
A cry as of surprise escaped from her lips, and for a moment shame 
and pique contended for the ascendancy. Ill humor soon, though, re- 
turned to her heart and sneers to her lips. “Indeed, my children,” 
said she, with an atrociously benignant air, “ I have not forgotten 
you. You were each very good, before all these strange things hap- 


466 


C O N S U E L O. 


pened, and Consuelo in her disguise was really a handsome lad. It 
was then in this holy house that she passed her time in devotion, 
dividing her hours betweeii the precious canon and the good Joseph, 
since the time she left Venice ? Well, Zingarella, let us not make each 
other uneasy. We know each others secrets, and the enipress, who 
wishes to know everything, will be able to blame neither the one nor 
the other.” 

“ Suppose even I had a secret,” said Consuelo, “ you know nothing 
of it. I, however, learned yours, when I had a conversation of an 
hour’s duration with the empress, three days, Gorilla, before you made 
your engagement.” 

“And you sought to injure me?” said Gorilla, becoming flushed 
with anger. 

“ Had I told her what I knew of you, your engagement never would 
have been made. If you are now employed, it is because I was un- 
willing to take an advantage of my opportunities.” 

“ But why did you not? You must have been a great fool,” said 
Coi’illa with a candor and perversity of heart, which were wonderful 
to see. 

Consuelo and Joseph could not repress a smile as they heard her. 
Joseph’s was full of contempt — that of Consuelo was angelic and 
looked to lieaven. 

“ Yes, madam,” said she, with overpow’ering gentleness, “I am fool- 
ish, as you say I am, and am glad of it.” 

“ No ! no ! my child ; for I have an engagement and you have not,” 
said Gorilla amazed and reckless. “ They told me at Venice that you 
had no mind, and never could succeed. That is the only truth An- 
zoleto ever uttered about you. What then? that is not my fault. 
Had I been in your place, I would have told all I knew of la Gorilla, 
and would have represented myself as a virgin and as a saint. The 
empress would have believed it, and I would have supplanted every 
rival.” 

At first contempt was more powerful than indignation. Consuelo 
and Haydn laughed loud and long, and la Gorilla who, in becoming 
aware of what she called the impotence of her rival, lost the aggres- 
sive bitterness which had characterised her, drew up a chair near the 
fire, and sought to resume the conversation, for the purpose of sound- 
ing the strong and weak points of her adversaries. Just then her eye 
fell on the canon, whom she had not previously seen, because the lat- 
ter, guided by an instinct of prudence peculiar to his profession, had, 
by a gesture, bidden tbe fat nurse and her children to stand before him, 
until he should have gathered the purport of what was going on. 


CHAPTER XCII. 

After the insinuation which she had uttered a few minutes previ- 
ously, about the connections between Consuelo and the priest, the ap- 
pearance of the latter had on Gorilla almost the effect of the head of 
Medusa. She gradually, though, recovered her mind, when she re- 
flected that she had spoken Venetian, and at once spoke to him in 
German, with that mixture of embarrassment and efifrontery which 


C O N S U E L O, 


457 

is the characteristic of an immodest woman. The canon, ordinarily 
polished and polite in his own house, did not quit his seat and did not 
even return her salute. Gorilla, who had asked about him in Vienna, 
had heard all say he was extremely well-bred, passionately fond of 
music, and absolutely incapable of lecturing a woman, especially a 
singer, severely. She had intended to go and see him and to fascinate 
him so that he would not be able to scold her. Though in matters of 
this kind, she had the kind of sense in which Consuelo was deficient, 
she had that negligence and disregard of propriety which is the con- 
sequence of disorder, idleness, and — though this may seem perhaps 
extravagant — evil deportment. In persons of gross organizations all 
these things are linked together. Weakness of body and mind make 
intrigue powerless, and Gorilla, who had an instinctive perception of 
perfidy of every kind, had not often sufficient capacity to lead a plot 
to a successful termination. She had therefore postponed from day 
to day her visit to the canon ; and when she found him so cold and 
stern, began to be visibly disconcerted. 

Then seeking to resume her position by a coup de main, she said to 
Gonsuelo, who yet held Angela in her arms — “ Well, why do you not 
suffer me to kiss my child and place it at his reverence’s feet, that — ” 

“ Dame Gorilla,^’ said the canon, in the dry and mocking tone in 
which he had previously said Dame Bridget, “ suffer that child to be 
unmolested.” Then speaking Italian with a great deal of elegance, 
though perhaps too slowly and with too much accent, he continued, 
without uncovering himself— “ I have been listening to you for a 
quarter of an hour, and though not very familiar with your patois, I 
have heard enough to authorise me to say that you are the most im- 
pudent person of your sex I ever met with. I think, however, you 
are rather stupid than depraved, rather contemptible than dangerous. 
Yon have no idea of the beautiful, and it would be useless to seek to 
make you comprehend it. I have but one thing to say; this young 
girl, tliis virgin as you called her just now in derision, has been sullied 
by your having spoken to her, and you shall do so no more. The 
child you have given birth to shall not be sullied by your touch; so 
do not lay your" hands on it. Gonsuelo has said, ‘it is a holy thing,’ 
and I know it is. Through her intercession I took charge of it, and 
did not fancy that the perverse instincts it inherited from you one 
day might make me repent having done so. We have been told that 
divine goodness gives to every being the power to know and practice 
virtue, and we have resolved to teach it what is right, and render it 
amiable and docile. Henceforth, then, do not look on this child as 
your own. You have abandoned it, and given it up. It does not be- 
long to you. You have deposited a sum of money to pay for its edu- 
cation.” He made a sign to the gardener’s wife, who on an intima- 
tion from him a few minutes before, had taken a bag with a seal at- 
tached to it, from the chest. This was what Gorilla had sent with her 
daughter to the priest, and which had never been opened. He took 
the bag and threw it at Gorilla’s feet. “ We have nothing to do with 
that, nor do we wish to. Now I beg you to leave my house and never 
enter it again, under any possible pretext. On these conditions, and 
provided you will never open your mouth in relation to the circum- 
stances which made me acquainted with you, we will promise tire 
most absolute silence in relation to all that relates to you. If you act 
in any other manner I warn you; I have more means than you fancy, 
to intbrm her imperial majesty of the state of affairs; and you may 


458 


CONSUELO. 


see the wreaths thrown at your feet on the stage and the applause of 
your admirers, changed into a sojourn of several years in a Magdalen 
convent.” 

When he had concluded, the canon arose and by a sign bade the 
nurse take the child, and Consuelo and Joseph go to the other end of 
the room. He then pointed out the door to Gorilla, who, terrified, 
pale, and trembling, left convulsively and half-crazed, without know- 
ing whither she went or what had happened. 

During this kind of imprecation the canon felt like an honest man, 
who gradually had from indignation become terribly excited. Con- 
snelo and Joseph had never before seen him angry. A priest, 
though, never loses the habit of command, and the air of royal rule 
which passes into the blood and which in an instant betrayed the 
bastard of Augustus II., covered the canon, perhaps unknown to 
himself, with a kind of irresistible majesty. 

La Gorilla, to whom, perhaps, no man had ever spoken in such 
terms of austere truth before, felt more terror and alarm than her 
most furious lovers had ever inspired in their wildest displays of fury 
and revenge. An Italian, and therefore superstitious, she was terri- 
fied at the priest and his anathema, and fled through the garden while 
the canon, exhausted by an effort so contrary to his habit of enjoy- 
ment and pleasure, fell back on his chair pale and exhausted. 

All hurried to his assistance, though Gonsuelo looked after the 
trembling and vacillating steps of Gorilla. She saw her fall at the 
end of the alley on the grass, either from having trembled in her 
trouble, or because her strength could no longer support her. Led 
away by her kindness, and finding the scene which had passed too 
great for her powers, she left the canon in charge of Joseph, and ran 
to aid her rival, who was suffering from a violent nervous attack. 
Unable to soothe her, and not daring to bring her back to the priory, 
she sought to keep her from falling and digging her hands in the 
ground. Gorilla was perfectly insane for some time, but when she 
recognised the person who had come to her assistance, and who wish- 
ed to soothe her, she became at once quiet and her face assumed a 
bluish pallor. Her lips became fixed and remained silent, and her icy 
eyes were fixed on the ground, as if she dared not lift them. She 
suffered herself passively to be taken to the carriage wliich waited for 
her, and was assisted into it by her rival without speaking a word. 
“ You are very ill,” said Gonsuelo, terrified at the change of her ex- 
pression. “ Let me go with you for some distance, I can easily return 
on foot.” Gorilla said nothing, but repulsed her brusquely, with an 
expression it was impossible to interpret. Suddenly sobbing aloud, 
she hid her face in one hand, and with the other bade the coachman 
drive on, at the same time putting down the blind between her and 
her generous enemy. 

On the next day, at the last rehearsal of Anfi^one, Gonsuelo was at 
her post, and waited for Gorilla to begin. The latter sent her servant 
to say that she would come in half an hour. Gatfariello was loud in 
his curses, and said he was not subject to the orders of such a crea- 
ture, at the same time acting as if he would leave at once. Madame 
Tesi, though pale and ill, wished to witness this rehearsal, for the pur- 
pose of laughing at la Gorilla’s expense. She had caused a property 
sofa to be brought and placed at the O. P. entrance, painted like a 
curtain, .gathered up in the back in what in French stage language is 
known as manteau d’arlequin. She soothed her friend, and insisted 


CONSUELO. 


469 

on waiting for ia Gorilla, fancying that she delayed coming only be“ 
cause she was unwilling to see her. At last la Gorilla came, more 
pale and languid even than Madame Tesi herself, who seemed to re- 
vive when she saw her in this condition. Instead of throwing otf her 
cloak and hood with the great airs which she was used to put on, she 
sat on the throne at the back of the stage and spoke thus to Holz- 
baiier, “ Mr. Manager, I assure you that I am very sick, that I have 
no voice, and have passed a terrible night — (“With whom?” said 
Tesi, languidly to Caifariello.) I cannot, therefore, go through to- 
morrow’s rehearsal, unless I resume the role of Ismene, and you give 
that of Berenice to another person.” 

“ What, madam ? ” said Holzbaiier, as if he had been stricken down 
by a thunderbolt. “ Js it on the eve of the production of an opera, 
when the court has appointed the hour, you tell us of such a mis- 
fortune? Is it possible. I can consent to it under no circum- 
stances ” 

“You must,” said she in her natural voice, which w’as far from 
mild. “ I am engaged for second parts, and there is nothing to oblige 
me to undertake the first. From kindness alone I undertook to re- 
place la Signora Tesi, and also for the purpose of preventing any in- 
terruptions to the pleasures of the court — now I am too ill to keep 
my promise, and you cannot make me sing unless I please.” 

“ My dear, you will be made to sing by order. If you sing badly, we 
will be prepared for it. This is a small misfortune compared with 
those you have met with during your life. It is too late, though, for 
you to repent. You have presumed too much on your resources. 
You will make a fiasco; that is nothing to us. I will sing so that 
people shall forget there is such a personage as Berenice — La Porpo- 
rina also as Ismene will reward the public, and all but you will be 
satisfied. This will be a lesson by which you can profit) and which 
will never happen to you again.” 

“You are much mistaken about the reason why I refuse,” said la 
Gorilla. “ Were I not sick I would sing the part perhaps as well as 
another. As, though, I cannot, there is one here who will sing it as 
w'ell as it ever has been sung in Vienna, and she will be able to do it 
to-morrow. The opera then will not be postponed, and I will resume 
cheerfully the role of Ismene, which does not fatigue me.” 

“ Do you think that Madame Tesi will be well enough to-morrow 
to sing her own part? ” 

“ I know perfectly well that Madame Tesi will not be able to sing 
for a long time,” said la Gorilla, speaking so that the former could 
hear her voice distinctly. “ See how she is changed ! Her appear- 
ance is terrible. I said, though, you had a perfect Berenice— one who 
is incomparable and superior to all others. Here she is,” said she, 
rising and placing her hand in Gonsuelo’s for the purpose of drawing 
her amid the agitated group which stood around herself. 

“ Do you mean me ? ” said Gonsuelo, who fancied that she 
dreamed. 

“ I mean you,” said Gorilla, forcing her convulsively to the throne 
— “ Now, Porporina, you are queen. You have the highest rank. I 
placed you in that position, for I owed you that atonement. Do not 
forget It.” 

In his distress, Holzbaiier, on the very eve of failing, and being 
forced to resign, could not refuse the aid which was tendered him. 
From the manner in which Gonsuelo sang Ismene, he saw clearly 


460 


C (> N S U E L O, 


enough that she could sing Berenice in a most superior manner. In 
spite of his dislike to her and Porpora, he now had but one apprehen- 
sion, that she would not play the part. 

She seriously protested that she would not, and cordially clasping 
Gorilla’s hands, besought her not to make a sacrifice which did her- 
self so little good, at the same time that, to her rival, it was the most 
terrible expiation and the most abject atonement which could be im- 
posed on her. Gorilla was fixed in lier determination. Madame 
Tesi, terrified at the danger which menaced her, was anxious to try 
her voice, and resume her role, even if she died immediately after, for 
she was really ill; she did not, though, dare to do so. At an imperial 
theatre of those days, artistes could not be so capricious as the good- 
humored sovereign of our times, the public, permits them to indulge 
in. The court expected to see a new Berenice: it had been an- 
nounced, and the empress relied on it. 

“Come,” said Caffariello to Consuelo, “make up your mind at 
once,” 

On this occasion, for the first time in her life, Consuelo showed 
that which had been all through her life la Corilla’s characteristic. 
Let us record it. 

“ I do not know the part — I never studied it,” said Consuelo. “ I 
will not be able to learn it by to-morrow.” 

“You have heard it. You know it, therefore,” said Porpora, in a 
voice of thunder, “ you will sing it to-morrow. Come, no more grim- 
aces, and let all this pretence end. — Mr. Director let the violins strike 
up. — You, Berenice, take your place; no sheet of music when a role 
has been read thrice — it should be known by heart — I say you know 
it.” 

“No, tutto, 0 Berenice,” 

Sang Corilla, resuming the role of Ismene, — 

“Tu non apri il tno cor.” 

“ And now,” thought Corilla, who estimated Consuelo’s pride by 
her own, “ all she knows of me will seem trivial.” 

Consuelo, whose prodigious memory and power of acquisition, Por- 
pora was well acquainted with, sang her role, music and words, with- 
out any hesitation. Madame Tesi was so much amazed at her words 
and play that she became much worse, and went home before the re- 
heaisal of the second act. On the next day Consuelo had prepared 
her dress, and the little points of her part, and gone over all the music, 
with attention, by five o’clock. Her success was complete, and the em- 
press said, as she left the theatre, “ That is an admirable young girl, 
and I must find her a husband; I will think of it.” 

On the next day, she beitan to rehearse the Zenohia <if Metastasio, 
with woi ds by Predieri. Corilla yet insisted on her taking the first 
part, and or» this occasion Madame Holzbaiier took the second. As 
she was a better artist than Corilla, this opera was much better stud- 
ied than the other. 

Metastasio was delighted to see that his poetry, which during the 
wars had been neglected, returning into favor at court, and becoming 
the rage in Vienna. lie no longer thought of his wrongs: and 
pressed by the kindness of the empress and the duty of his office to 
write new operatic dratnas, he prepared himself by the study of the 
G-eek and Latin classics, to produce one of those chef tV oeuvres 


C O N S U E L O. 


461 


which the Italians of Vienna and the Germans of Italy placed boldly, 
and at once, above the tragedies of Corneille, Racine, Shakspeare, 
Calderon, and every one else, to have the pleasure of telling him so 
to his face, without blushing at it. 

Not in tliis part of the book, which has already become too long 
and discursive, will we exhaust yet more the reader’s patience, which 
ere now has been perhaps worn out, by telling him what we think of 
Metastasio. We will only repeat what Consuelo whispered to Joseph. 

“ My dear Beppo, you cannot conceive how difficult it is to play 
those roles, said to be so sublime and pathetic. True, the words are 
well arranged, aivd flow easily from the tongue in singing, but when 
one thinks of the personage, I do not see where not only emotion but 
a serious face is to be found in pronouncing them. What a strange 
fancy then it is to make antiquity act according to the sentiment of 
to-day, and represent intrigues, passions, and moral thoughts, which 
perhaps in the memoirs of Baron Trenck, the Margrave of Bareith, 
and the Princess of Culmbach, would not be out of place, but which 
are nonsense in the lips of Berenice, and Arsinoe. When I was get- 
ting well at the Giants’ Castle, Count Albert used often to read me to 
sleep, as he thought. I did not sleep, though, but heard every word. 
He read to me the Greek tragedies of Eschylus, Sophocles, and Eu- 
ripides slowly, but with distinctness and without hesitation, having 
the Greek text before him. He understood the ancient and modern 
tongues so thoroughly that it seemed an admirably well made trans- 
lation. He made it extremely faithful, he said, because lie wished me 
to see. in the scrupulous exactness of his rendering, the extreme sim- 
plicity of the Greek genius. My God! what grandeur, and what im- 
ages, what poetry, and soberness of diction! what pure and strong 
cliaracters! what energetic situations! what deep and true agony! 
what lacerating and terrible scenes he displayed to me! I was yet 
feeble, and with my imagination still under the influence of the vio- 
lent excitement which had produced my attack, I was overpowered 
hy what I heard, and fancied myself, as I heard Antigone, Clytemnes- 
tra, Medea or x4lectra, and that really and personally, I figured in 
those bloody dreams — not in the theatre looking at the foot-lights — 
but in the terrible solitude, amid gaping caverns, neath the columns 
of antique temples, or by the dreary hearth where the dead were 
wept for while vengeance was plotted against the living. I heard the 
sad chorus of the Trojan women, and of the Dardan captives. The 
Eumenides danced around me to what strange rhythm and to what 
infernal modulation. I cannot now think of it without a recollection 
of pleasure and terror, which makes me yet tremble. I sh.tll never 
have on the stage, in the realization of my dreams, the same emo- 
tions and power which at that time filled both my lieart and head. 
Then I became aware that I was a tragedienne, forming conceptions of 
which no actress had furnished me a model. Then I comprehended 
the drama, tragic effect, and theatrical poetry. As Albert read, I 
improvised in my own mind a chant in which I followed all I heard. 
I sometimes caught myself in the attitude and with the physiognomy 
of the persons who spoke; and he often paused with terror fancying 
that an Andromache or Ariadne lay before him. Ah, — I learned and 
acquired more in the course of one month than I shall in a lifetime 
of Metastasio’s dramas. If the composers had not inspired the music 
with the sentiment and truth which is so deficient in the plot, I fancy 
I would die of disgust at the Grand-Duchess Zenobia, speaking with 


CONSUELO. 


462 

the Landgrave Egle, and hearing Field-Marshal Ehadaniistus disput- 
ing with Zopyrus, a Cornet of Pandours. Oh ! all this is false, false as 
possible, my poor Beppo; false as our costumes are, false as the pow- 
dered wig of Caffariello Tindates,as a Pompadour undress of Madame 
Holzbauer in an Armenian pastoral ; like the rose-colored stockings 
of Prince Demetrius; and these scenes which look as much like Asia 
as Metastasio is like Homer.” 

“ What you say,” said Haydn, “ explains to me why, when I write 
operas for the stage, if I ever reach such a climax, I feel less inspira- 
tion than when I write oratories. There the puerile artifices of the 
stage never contradict the truth of sentiment, in that symphonic cir- 
cle where sentiment is everything and all is music— where the soul is 
uttered to the ear and not to the eye— it seems to me that the com- 
poser may expound all revealed to him, and lead the hearer into re- 
gions truly exalted.” 

As she spoke thus, Joseph and Consuelo were waiting for the com- 
pany to come to rehearsal, and were walking up and down the long 
back scene, which at niglit was to represent the river Araxes, but 
which by day-light seemed only a vast band of indigo, with here and 
there a spot of ochre, to represent the mountains of Caucasus. Every 
one knows that these back scenes are placed the one in front of the 
other, so as to be rolled up on a cylinder, whenever the scene changes. 
In the interval which separates them trom each other, the actors 
during the rehearsal walk to and fro; scene-shifters lie down and ex- 
change snutf-boxes, while the oil from badly secured lamps falls on 
them. During the day, the actors walk up and down these dark pas- 
sages, repeating the words of their parts, or talking of their business 
matters. Sometimes tliey hear little conversations not intended for 
them, or ascertain the secrets of others, between whom and themselves 
hangs a whole gulf, or a public sea. 

Luckily, Metastasio was not on the other shore of the Araxes, 
while ttie inexperienced Consuelo thus uttered her artistic indignation 
to Haydn. The rehearsal began. It was the second time Zenobia 
had been called, and all passed off so well that the musicians in the 
orchestra applauded, as they are in the habit of doing, by tapping 
with their bows on the tops of their violins. The music of Predieri 
was charming, and Porpora conducted it with an enthusiasm that of 
Hasse could not call forth. The character of Tiridates was one of 
Catfariello’s triumphs, and he did not complain that a dress had been 
prepared like that which would not be out of place in an opera, taken 
from the story of Celadon, and Clytander. If Consuelo thought her 
role not at all consonant with that of her heroine of antiquity, she 
was at least satisfied that rt was really feminine. In a manner it re- 
called to her the situation in which she had been placed between Al- 
bert and Anzoleto. Completely oblivious of all the localities, and 
thinking to represent merely human sentiments, she felt that in this 
air she was sublime — 

“ Voi legete in ogni cor, 

Voi sa|»ete. O ! giusti Dei, 

8e non puri, voti miei. 

Se innocente e la pieta.’* 

At that moment she felt conscious of a deserved triumph and of 
true emotion ; she needed only the look of Caffariello, who on that 
occasion was not restrained by the glance of la Tesi, and who really 
admired her, to confirm what slie was already sensible of, the certainty 



C O N S U E L O, 


463 


of producing on every one, under all possible conditions, the greatest 
effect with this morceau. She was thus reconciled to her part — satis- 
fied with the opera, with herself, and, in one word, with the theatre. 
In spite of the imprecations she had uttered but a moment before, she 
could not resist one of those sudden palpitations which are so pro- 
found, unexpected and powerful, that it is impossible for any one not 
an artist to understand what centuries of labor, deception and suffer- 
ing can be atoned for in an hour. 


CHAPTER XCTII. 

As a pupil and half servant of Porpora, Haydn, who was fond of 
music, and was anxious to study even under a material point of view, 
the consistency of operas, obtained permission to go behind the scenes 
when Consuelo sang. For a few days he observed that Porpora, who 
had at first been ill disposed to admit him behind the scenes, author- 
ised him to come even before he ventured to ask leave. Something 
new had suggested itself to the maestro. Maria Thei-esa, while speak- 
ing of music to the Venetian ambassador, had returned to hei- fixed 
matrimo-mania. She told him how glad she would be to see this 
great singer fixed at Vienna as the wife of her teachei-’s pupil, Haydn. 

She asked the ambassador about the latter, of whom he spoke highly, 
assuiing her that he had great musical capacities, and moreover that 
he was an excellent Catholic. Her majesty asked him to bring about 
the marriage, and promised to give the young couple a household. 

The idea seemed very suitable to Korner, who was fond of Joseph, to 
whom he had already made an allowance of sixty-two francs a month 
to enable him to commence his musical studies without difficulty. ' 
This plan the ambassador urged on Porpora, who, fearing that Con- 
suelo would persist in her idea of marrying a gentleman and leaving 
the stage, after much hesitation and resistance, (he wished his pupil 
to remain unloving and unmarried,) was at last persuaded. To make 
a decided impression, the ambassador had determined to show him 
Haydn’s compositions, and to tell him that the trio-serenade he ex- 
pressed such a high opinion of, washy Beppo. Porpora had confessed 
that Haydn had the germ of great capacity, that he could give it a good 
direction, and aid him to write for the voice; in fine, that a singer 
married to a composer might be extremely lucky. The youth of the 
pair, and their small means, made industry a matter of necessity, and 
Consuelo would thus be bound to the theatre. The maestro yielded. 

He, like Consuelo, had received no reply from Riesenburg. This si- 
lence made him apprehend some resistance to his plans, some scheme 
of the young count. “ If I can marry,” said he, “or at least promise 
Consuelo to another, I shall have nothing to fear in that quarter.” 

The difficulty lay in inducing Consuelo to consent. Persuasion 
would have the effect of inducing her to resist. With his Neapolitan 
wit, he came to the conclusion that the force of circumstances must 
bring about a change in her mind. She liked Beppo; and though he 
had subdued his passion for her, he exhibited too much zeal and de- 
votion for Porpora, to imagine that he was not deeply in love. He 
thought that by not interfering with their association, he would give 


464 


C O N S U E L O. 


him the means of inducing her to accede to his wishes. That by grad- 
ually informing him of the empress’s wishes and of his own consent, 
he would inspire him with coui-age, eloquence, and persuasion. He 
therefore ceased at once his tyranny and brutality, and gave a free 
vent to the expansion of their fraternal devotion, flattering himself 
that things would come right more certaiidy than if he interfered di- 
ectly with them. 

Porpora, in not entertaining any doubt of success, committed a 
great error. He exposed Consuelo’s fair fame to slander; for it was 
only necessary for Joseph to be seen behind the scenes twice with her, 
to dispose all the people of the theatre to proclaim far and wide the 
existence of an amour. Poor Consuelo, confiding and unsuspicious, 
as chaste, pure hearts ever are, had no suspicion of the danger, and 
therefore could take no precaution against it. Therefor^ on the day 
after this rehearsal of Zenobia, eyes were on the watch and tongues 
were busy at every entrance ; behind every scene, there was between 
the actors, chorus, and employees of all degrees, a malignant or kind 
observation, fault-finding or benevolent, about the scandal of this in- 
trigue, or the open avowal of the mutual understanding. 

Consuelo, fully occupied by her part, thinking only of her part and 
artistic emotions, heard and foresaw nothing. Haydn, who was a 
dreamer, and was always enwrapped by the opera being sung, and the 
one he meditated in his musical mind, heard here and there some re- 
marks which he did not understand, so far was he from flattering any 
vain hope. When, as he passed, he heard any equivocal remark, any 
piquant observation, he looked up, cast his eyes around him, glanced 
at the victim of this satire, and if he did not see her, resumed his 
contemplation. 

Between each act of the opera there was a buffa interlude: on this 
occasion was to be performed V Impressario delle Canarie, a collec- 
tion of gay and very amusing scenes, by Metastasio. La Gorilla, who 
played the part of a whimsical, perverse and absolute prima-donna, 
was perfect; and her success in this trifle consoled her for the sacri- 
fice of the great part of Zenobia. During the rehearsal of this piece, 
and while waiting for the third act to be called, Consuelo, who was 
somewhat worried by her part, went behind the back scene, between 
the horrible valley, overhung by mountains and precipices, wliich was 
the first decoration, and the good river Araxes,on the banks of which 
w'ere the most beautiful hills, which were to appear in the third set to 
delight the sensible spectator. She walked to and fro rather rapidly, 
when Joseph brought her fan, which she had left on the prompter’s 
table, and which she used with much satisfaction. The instinct of 
his heart, and the intentional pre-occupation of Porpora, led Joseph 
mechanically to his friend’s side; and from their habit of confidence 
and want of reserve, Consuelo received him joyously. In this double 
sympathy, at which not even the angels in heaven would have blushed, 
destiny resolved to find the commencement of strange misfortunes. 
We are well satisfied that women who read romances, and who are 
always anxious to come to the end, will at once be eager to know 
what. We must beg them, though, to be patient. 

“ Well, my friend,” said Joseph, smiling, and offering Consuelo his 
hand, “it seems tome you are no longer so dissatisfied with the drama 
of our illustrious abbe, and that you found your ‘prayer’ — an opeii 
window, through which the demon of your genius will henceforth 
contrive to soar.” 


CONSUELO. 


465 


“ Then you think I sung well ? ” 

** Do you not see my eyes are red ? ” 

** Foil wept, yes. That is well; I am satisfied with harjsg made 
you do so.” 

“ As if it were the first time. You are an artist, though, Consuelo, 
as Porpora wishes. The fire of success is enkindled in you. When 
you sang in the depths of the Boehmer-wald, you saw me weep, and 
did so too, to keep me company, touched by the very beauty of your 
own song. Now all is changed, and you quiver with pleasure at my 
tears. Courage, Consuelo, you are now a prima-donna, in the fullest 
sense of the term.” 

“ Do not say so, my beloved. I shall never be like her.” As she 
spoke, she pointed to Corilla, who was then singing on the stage, just 
in front of the back scene. 

“ Do not be angry; I mean to say that the god of inspiration has 
conquered you. It is in vain that your cold reason, your austere 
philosophy, and your memory of Riesenburg have contended against 
the spirit of Python. He now occupies and overwhelms you. Con- 
fess that you are overcome with pleasure. I feel your arm tremble in 
mine, your face is animated, and 1 never before saw you look as you 
do now. No, you were not more agitated or inspired when Count 
Albert read you the Greek tragedies.” 

“ What a wrong you do me,” said Consuelo, growing pale, and at 
the same time withdrawing her arm from Joseph’s. “ Why do you 
utter that name here? It is holy, and should not be breathed in this 
temple of folly. It is a terrible name, which, like a thunderbolt, dis- 
pels at night all the illusions and phantoms of golden dreams.” 

“ W^ell, Consuelo, do you wish me to tell you the truth?” Haydn 
after a moment’s hesitation said. “ You can never make up your mind 
to marry that man.” 

“ Hush, hush ! I promised to do so.” 

“ Well, if you keep your promise you can never be happy with him. 
You leave the theatre? give up your artist life? It is too late. You 
have tasted a pleasure, the absence of which would torment your ex- 
istence.” 

“ I am afraid of you, Beppo. Why say such things to-day?” 

“ I do not know; and I speak almost under compulsion, as it were; 
I think w'hen w'e go home I will write something sublime. What I 
will write will perhaps be very commonplace, but for a quarter of an 
hour I will be full of genius.” 

, “ How gay, how tranquil you are, while I, amid this fever of pride 

and glory of which you speak, experience bitter grief, and wish at the 
same time to laugh and cry.” 

You suffer— I am sure you must. At the very time you feel your 
power ready to burst forth, a sad thought seizes and chills you.” 

“Yes it is the case — and why? ” 

“ It means that you are an artist, and that you have made a duty, 
an obligation abominable in the eyes of God, and hateful to yourself 
— I mean the renunciation of art.” 

“ It seemed yesterday not to be so, but to-day it does. The reason 
is, that my nerves are” out of order, and that agitation has always a 
bad effect on me. I always dreamed that they controlled or influenced 
me. I had always gone on the stage with calmness and with careful 
and modest attention. To-day all is changed, and were I now to go 
on the stage it seems to me I would commit some sublime folly or ex- 
29 


466 


C O N S U E L O. 


travagance. The reins of my will escape from my control. To-mor- 
row I trust this will not be the case, for my emotion appi )ximate3 
nearly to delirium and agony.” 

“ My poor friend, I fear this will always be the case, or rather I 
hope so, for your power exists in this emotion alone. 1 have heard 
from every musician and actor I ever met, that but for this delirium 
or trouble they were powerless, and that instead of being calmed by 
age, they always became more impassionable to every embrace of 
their demon.” 

“ This is a great mystery,” said Consuelo, with a sigh. “ It seems 
to me that the vanity and jealousy of others, the base craving for suc- 
cess, cannot to-morrow so completely change my being. No; 1 
assure you, when'singing Zenobia’s prayer, and the duo with Tiridates, 
the passion and power of Caffariello bore me along on the wings of a 
tempest as it were. I did not think of the public, nor (?f my rivals, 
not even of myself. I was Zenobia; I thought of the immortal gods 
of Olympus with a truly Christian fervor, and was filled with love for 
good Caffariello, whom, after the ritornella, I could not look at with- 
out a smile. All this is strange, and I begin to think the dramatic 
art is a perpetual lie, and that God punishes us by madness, making 
us really believe what we seek to impose on others with. No, it is 
riot permitted to man to abuse all the passions and emotions of real 
life, and make a sport of them. He wishes us to keep our souls ])ure 
and holy for true affections. When we violate this wish He strikes 
and punishes us.” 

“God— God — the will of God; yes, Consuelo, there is the mystery; 
who can penetrate His designs in relation to us? Would he give us 
from our very cradle those instincts of art, which no passion can sti- 
fle, if he forbade the use we are called to make of them ? Why, in my 
very childhood, did I dislike the sports of my companions? Why, as 
soon as I became my own master, did I study music with a diligence 
from which nothing could divert me, and an assiduity which vvould 
have killed any other child of my age? Rest was wearying to me, 
and from toil I obtained energy. So, too, was it with you, Consuelo. 
You have told me a hundred times, when we listened to each other’s 
story, that we might almost fancy we heard our own. So the hand of 
God is in everything, and all power, all inclination, is His work, even 
when we do not see the object. You ai'e born artistic, and you must 
follow the behest of your organization. Whoever interferes with it 
will inflict on you a more terrible death than that of the tomb.” 

“ Beppo,” said Consuelo, terrified and almost unconscious, “ if you 
were really my friend 1 know what you would do.” 

“ What, dear Consuelo ? Is not my very life yours? ” 

“ You would kill me to-morrow, when the curtain fell, when I w'as 
become truly an artist, really inspired, for the first and last time.” 

“Ah!” said Joseph, with a sad gayety, I had rather kill Count Al- 
bert or myself.” 

At that time Consuelo turned toward the wing, which opened di- 
rectly in front of her, and looked at it with an expression of most 
pielancholy thought. 

The interior of a large theatre by daylight presenis so different an 
appearance from that it wears when seen from the front, and by night, 
that it is impossible for one who has not seen it to form any idea of 
it. Nothing is more sad or sombre than the dark hall, deserted and 
silent. Were any human form to show itself diatuicUy in the boxes. 


CONSUELO, 


467 

closed like vaults, it would seem a spectre, and make the oldest actor 
shrink back. The faint melancholy light, which penetrates from the 
windows in the roof of the back of the stage, glances across rude scaf- 
folding and dusty beains and planks. On the stage, stripped of all per- 
spective, the eye is amazed at the narrow space in which so many 
persons and passions are represented, and where they feign majestic 
motion, imposing crowds, irrepressible outbreaks to the spectator’s 
eye, but which are calculated and meted out, line by line, to avoid 
confusion together, or contact w'ith the fixtures. If the stage seems 
narrow and contracted, the height of the building destined to contain 
all these decorations, and to move all these machines, seems immense, 
when separated from all hangings, festooned clouds, the architectural 
cornices, and the green bows, which occupy so much of the space be- 
fore the spectator. In its real disproportion, this height seems aus- 
tere, and in looking on the stage one feels as if in a dungeon ; in 
looking upward, one feels as if in some gothic church, either ruin- 
ed or unfinished, for all around is rough, shapeless, fantastic, and in- 
coherent. Ladders in disorder, just where the machinist needs them, 
thrown against others half indistinct amid the confusion, masses of 
plank, roughly sawed, decorations turned wrong side out, without any 
meaning, cords mingled together, like hieroglyphics. Numberless 
fragments, pulleys, wheels, which seem to belong to some unknown 
instrument of torture, resemble one of the dreams which visit us 
just before we wake, in which, amid our efforts to awake, we see the 
most incomprehensible things. All is vague and floating, and every- 
thing seems out of place. We see a man quietly at work on a rafter, 
which seems supported by spiders’ threads, and might almost seem 
a sailor, grasping the rope of a vessel, or a gigantic rat, gnawing at 
worm-eaten planks. We hear words from we know not whence. 
They are eighty feet above, and the whimsical echoes filling all the 
corners of the strange dome, distinct or confused, as you pass to 
right or left, sound mysterious indeed. A terrible noise shakes the 
scaffolding, and is prolonged with a distinct hiss. Is the roof falling? 
Has one of these frail balconies been shattered and thrown down? 
No, it is only a sleeping scene-shifter, or a cat in search of a mouse, 
leaping across precipices and labyrinths hanging in air. Before you 
grow used to these objects and these noises you are afraid. You do 
not know what is the matter, and against what apparitions to be pre- 
pared. You understand nothing, and what neither the senses nor the 
mind comprehends, what is uncertain and unknown, always alarms 
the logic of the senses. The only thing we can understand when we 
penetrate for the first time this chaos is, that we are about to witness 
some wild revelry of a mysterious alchemy. 

Consuelo, then, lost in thought, suffered ^er eyes to wander over 
the strange edifice, and the poetry of this disorder for the first time 
revealed itself to her. At each extremity of the passage fonned by 
the two scenes was a dark passage, up and down which, from time to 
time, figures moved like shadows. Once she saw one of these shad- 
ows pause, as if to speak to her, and thought she saw a gesture made 
to attract her attention. 

“ Is that Porpora? ” she asked Joseph. 

“ No,” said he. “ Probably some one sent to tell you the third act 
is about to begin.” 

Consuelo increased her pace and walked towards the figure, the 
features of which she could not distinguish. When, though, about 


468 


CONSUELO, 


three paces from it, and when about to question it, the figure passed 
rapidly behind, down the next wing, and went behind all the scenes 
to the back of the stage. 

‘‘That person seems to have been eavesdropping,” said Joseph. 

“ He seems to have hidden himself,” added Consuelo, who had 
noticed the haste with which he avoided being seen. I know not why, 
but I am afraid.” 

She went on the stage and rehearsed the last act, towards the end 
of which she again felt the enthusiasm she had previously experienced. 
When she wanted to put on her cloak to leave, she was dazzled by a 
sudden light, a window above having been opened, and the sun-light 
falling immediately before her. The contrast of this with the previous 
darkness, for a moment blinded her, and she walked two or three steps 
at hazard, and suddenly met in the wdng the same person in the black 
cloak who had previously made her uneasy. She saw him confusedly, 
yet seemed to recognise him. She uttered a cry, and rushed towards 
him; but he had already gone, and she could not find him. 

“ What is the matter? ” said Joseph, handing her her cloak. Have 
you struck against any of the scenes? Are you hurt?” 

“ No,” said she; “but I have seen Count Albert.” 

“ Count Albert here? — are you sure? Is it possible? ” 

“It is — it is certain,” said Consuelo, leading him away. She then 
began to pass up and down the wings, and looked into every recess. 
Joseph assisted her in the search, though he was satisfied she was 
mistaken, while Porpora called impatiently for her to come home. 
Consuelo found no one in the least like Albert, and when she was 
compelled to go with the maestro, she saw all the persons who had 
been on the stage pass before her, several of whom wore cloaks, not 
unlike the one which had attracted her attention. 

“It matters not,” said she to Joseph, in a low tone, “but I saw 
him,’- 

“It is an ocular delusion,” said Haydn. “ Had Count Albert been 
there, he would have spoken, and you tell me that he fled twice as you 
approached him.” 

‘‘ I cannot say it was really he; and as you say, Joseph, “ it was a 
vision, perhaps,” Oh ! I wish to leave at once, to go to Bohemia. I 
am sure he is in danger and needs me.” 

“ I see that among other things, dear Consuelo, he has communi- 
cated his madness to you. Kegain your senses, I beseech you, and be 
assured if Count Albert be in Vienna, he will come to see you beture 
the day pass over your head.” 

This hope revived Consuelo, and she increased her pace with Beppo, 
leaving Porpora behind her, not out of humor at the idea of being 
left alone by her on thisoccasion. Consuelo, though, thought neither 
of Beppo nor the maestro. She hurried home, and, all panting, ran 
to her room, where she found no one. Joseph afterwards asked if 
any one had enquired, for them during their absence. The servants 
answered that no one had done so. Consuelo waited anxiously all 
day long, but to no purpo.se. At evening, and up to a late hour at 
night, she carefully examined all who passed or crossed the street. 
She seemed, ever and anon, to see .some one come to the door and 
pause, but these persons always passed by, singing or coughing, until 
they became lost in the distance. Consuelo, satisfied that she had a 
waking dream, went to sleep; and, on the next day, the impression 
being dissipated, she confessed to Joseph, that, in fact, she had recog- 


CONSUELO. 


469 

nised none of the features of the person in question. The general 
appearance of his form, the fashion and style of the mantle, a pale 
face, and something dark beneath the chin, which might be either a 
beard or the shadow of the hat, deeply defined in the fitful light of 
the theatre, had sufficed to persuade her that she saw Count Albert. 

“ If such a man as he whom you have so often described to me, 
had been in tlie theatre,” said .Joseph, “ there are so many people 
moving about that his negligee air, his long beard, and his black hair 
would have attracted attention — now. I have asked every one, even 
the door-keepers, who admit no person without knowing and receiv- 
ing authority to do so, and no stranger has been seen to-day.” 

“Well, then, it is certain that I dreamed — I was beside myself. I 
was thinking of xVlbert, and his shadow came. Some one stood 
before me whom I thought to be him. My head has become very 
weak. I am certain that I wept in the bottom of my heart, and some- 
thing very extraordinary has happened, and something also absurd.” 

“Think no more of it,” said Joseph, “and do not weary yourself 
with fancies. Go over your part, and think of that to-night.” 


CHAPTER XCIV. 

During the day, Consuelo,from her windows, saw a strange troupe 
defile towards the square. They were rough-looking, healthy, and 
robust men, with long moustaches, and straps of leather bound round 
their bare legs, like the old buskins; they had on their heads pointed 
hats, and in their belts four pistols. Their arms were bare to the 
elbows, and in their hand was a long Albanian carbine. Over all this 
was a long red cloak. 

“ Is this a masquerade ? ” asked Consuelo of the canon, who had 
come to visit her; “ we are not in the carnival, I think.” 

“Look at these men,” said the canon, “for it will be long before 
we see them again, if God wills to perpetuate Maria Theresa’s reign. 
See with what curiosity the people look at them, though ; in their 
faces you may see something of disgust and terror. Vienna, in its 
days of anguish and distress, has received them more kindly than she 
does now.” 

“ Are these Sclavonian brigands, of whom we heard so much in 
Bohemia, where they have done so much mischief? ” 

“Yes; they are the fragments of the famous Croatian bandits, 
whom the celebrated cousin Francis of your friend Frederick Von 
Trenck, made free, and reduced to the most absolute subjection, so as 
to make them almost regular troops in Maria Theresa’s service. 
Look! there is that terrible hero, Trenck, with the burnt neck, as our 
soldiers call him : this famous partisan, the shrewdest, coldest, the 
most useful of the warlike years which have passed by, the greatest 
boaster and robber of his age, beyond doubt, but also the most robust, 
the most active, and fabulously brave of modern days. That is 
Trenck, the Pandour, the savage chief of a band as savage as him- 
self.” 

Francis Von Trenck was even taller than his cousin Frederick. He 
was six feet high, and his scarlet cloak, fastened to his neck by a ruby 


470 


CONSUELO. 


brooch, covered a whole museum of Turkish artillery, set with gems, 
of which his belt was the arsenal. Pistols, crooked sabres, and cut- 
lasses, nothing was wanting to give him the air of a most skilful 
stager. As a cap ornament lie wore a little scythe of gold, four blades 
of which overhung his brow. His aspect was horrible; the explosion 
of a barrel of gunpowder had disfigured and given him a diabolical 
aspect. One could not look at him without a shudder, said all the 
memoirs of the day. 

“ That then is the monster, the enemy of humanity,” said Consuelo, 
looking back with horror. “ Bohemia will long recall his march — 
cities burned and sacked, old women cut to pieces, and women out- 
raged. The fields exhausted by contributions, harvests ruined, flocks 
destroyed, when they could not be driven off — ruin, desolation, fire 
and waste everywhere. Poor Bohemia! ever the rendezvous of bat- 
tle, theatre of every tragedy!” 

“Yes; poor Bohemia! victim of all fury, arena of all contests,” said 
the canon, resuming the conversation, “ Francis Von Trenck has re- 
newed the sad excesses of John Ziska. Unconquered, like him, he 
gave no quarter, and the terror of his name was so great that his ad- 
vance-guard has often taken places while his main body was fighting 
four miles off. Of him may be said as of Attila, ‘ that the grass never 
grew where his horse’s hoof had stood.’ The conquered will curse 
him to the fourth generation.” 

The Pandour leader was soon lost in the distance; but Consuelo 
and the canon continued to see defile before him his magnificently 
caparisoned horses which his gigantic Croat Hussars led by the 
bridle. 

“ What you see is, as it were but a spangle of his wealth. Mules 
and wagons, loaded with arms, pictures, gems, ingots of gold and silver, 
are perpetually seen on the roads to his estates in Sclavonia. There he 
keeps that treasury which could pay a king’s ransom thrice. He dines 
from the gold service he took from the King of Prussia, at Soran, where 
the king himself was so near being taken. Some say he was but a 
quarter of an hour too late; others that he really took him, and 
made him pay a high price for his liberty. Be patient. The Pandour 
Trenck perhaps will not long enjoy his riches and glory. It is said 
that a criminal trial awaits him, and the most terrible accusations 
have been brought against him, and that the empress has a great 
dread of him. They say those of the Croats who have not taken 
their own discharge, are about to be incorporated in the imperial 
army and governed in the Prussian fashion. As for him, I have no 
great idea of the recompenses and rewards which await him at 
court.” 

“ They have, it is said, saved the imperial crown.” 

“ That is true. From the frontiers of Turkev to that of France 
they have spread terror, and captured the best defended places, and 
have conquered in the most desperate battles. Always the first to 
attack the front of an army, the head of a bridge, or the breach of a 
fort, they have won the admiration of our greatest generals and 
have forced our enenues to flight. The French everywhere gave way 
before them, and Frederick the Great grew pale, they say, like a com- 
mon man, at their war-cry. No river was too rapid, no forest too 
dense, no marsh too deep, no rock too rugged, no torrents, or falls, or 
fire, could be found which they did not dare at all hours of the night, 
and at all seasons. Yes, certainly they have saved the crown of 


CON SUE 1 , 0 . 471 

Maria Theresa, far more than tiie old military tactics of all our gene- 
rals and the ruse of our diplomats.” 

“ If that be so, their crimes will be unpunished and their thefts 
sanctified.” 

” It may be they will be too severely punished.” 

“ One never casts aside persons who have performed such services.” 

“ Excuse me,” said the canon maliciously. “ When they are no 
longer needed.” 

“ But was not every excess which they committed in the empire and 
the territories of the allies overlooked? ” 

“ Certainly. When they were necessary, they were forgiven.” 

“ And now? ” 

“ When outrage is not necessary, they reproach themselves with 
having permitted it.” 

“ And the great heart of Maria Theresa? ” 

“ They have profaned the churches.” 

“ I see. Trenck is lost, canon.” 

“ Hush ! That should not be said except in a whisper.” 

“Have you seen the Pandours?” said Joseph, coming into the 
room quite pale. 

“ Yes, with little pleasure.” 

“ Well, did you not recognise them ? ” 

“ It is the first time I ever saw them. How should I know them ? ” 

“ No, it is not the first time, Consuelo. We saw them in the Bdeh- 
mer-wald'^ 

“ Not to my knowledge.” 

“ You have then forgot a hut where we passed a night, and where 
we saw' ten or twelve men sleeping around us.” 

Consuelo remembered the hut, and having met these savage-look- 
ing persons, whom she, as well as Joseph, took for smugglers. Other 
emotions in which she had not participated, engraved on Joseph’s 
memory all the circumstances of this stormy night. “ Well.” said he, 
“ those smugglers who were not aware of our presence by their side, 
and w'ho left in the morning with sacks and heavy bags, w’ere Pan- 
dours. They had the arms, figures, moustaches, and cloaks which 
have just passed; and Providence, when he knew it not, protected 
us from the worst enemies w'e could possibly meet during all our 
travels.” 

“Certainly,” said the canon, to wdiora Joseph had often detailed all 
the incidents of their journey. “ These honest fellows had given 
themselves a leave of absence, as they are w'ont to do wdien their 
pockets are full; and they come to the frontier to return home by a 
long circuit, rather than travel through the empire with their booty, 
for they run some risk of being called on to account for it. Be as- 
sured, however, they did not reach home without difficulty, for on the 
road they kill and rob each other, so that none but the strongest of 
the party ever reaches their forests and caves. He brings with him 
the booty of his comrades.” 

The hour of performance came, and made Consuelo forget the som- 
bre thoughts which Trenck’s Pandours had evoked. She had no 
dressing-room, hitherto Madame Tesi having lent hers. On this occa- 
sion, though, la Tesi, offeuded at her success, had carried away the 
key, and the prima donna of the night w-as annoyed to find a place of 
refuge. These and similar treacheries are usual in theatres, for they 
irritate and disturb the rival, the temper of whom is sought to be of- 


472 


C () N S U E L O. 


fended. She loses time in finding a dressing-room, and is afraid she 
will find none. The hour advancers, and as her companions pass her, 
they say, “ What, not dressed yet! The curtain will soon rise.” At 
last, after many efforts, by means of threats and menaces, a room is 
found, without, however, anything that is reqtiired. All the sewing- 
women’s good-will having been gained by some malicious enemy — the 
costume either does not fit or is unfinished. The dressing- women 
wait on any one but the victim of this petty malice. The bell rings. 
The call-boy (the hvtta fuori) shouts down the corridors, {Signore 
e Signori, si va cominciar,) terrible words which frighten the debutante 
into a chill. She is not ready and hurries. She hurries, and breaks 
her corset-strings, she tears her cuffs, puts on her mantle awry, and 
her crown will fall as soon as she gains the stage. Trembling, angry, 
and nervous, with tears in her eyes, she must yet wear a celestial 
smile. She must have a pure and fresh voice, and restrain herself 
when she is almost choking with anger. Even coronets of flowers 
thrown at such a time on the stage conceal a thorn. 

Fortunately for Consuelo, she met Gorilla, who said, taking her 
hand, “ Come into my dressing-room ; la Tesi has flattered herself 
that she would serve you as she did me at the commencement of my 
engagement. I will, however, come to your aid, if it be only to foil 
her and make her angry. I will have that satisfaction at least.* As 
you now go on, Porporina, there is danger of my seeing you far sur- 
pass me, as every time that I have met you has been the case. You 
will certainly forget how I act now to you, but will always remember 
what wrong I have done you.” 

Wrong" done me. Gorilla?” said Consuelo, as she entered her 
rival’s dressing-room and began her toilet behind the screen, while 
the German dressing- women divided their attentions between the 
two singers, who were able to speak Venetian without being under- 
stood. “ Really, I do not know what wrong you have done me. I 
have forgotten all.” 

“ The proof that you have not forgiven me is, that you speak to me 
as if you were a duchess, and seem to despise me? ” 

“Well, I do not remember any great wrong you have done me,” 
said Consuelo, restraining her repugnance to familiarity with a woman 
who had so little in common with her. 

“ Is what you say true? Have you forgotten poor Zoto? ” 

“ I was free and had a right to forget him. I have done so,” said 
Consuelo, fastening her royal buskin, with a courage and freedom of 
will which confers on us at times the advantages of perfect use. She 
made then a brilliant roulade to keep herself in voice. 

Gorilla replied by another roulade for the same purpose. She then 
paused to say to her attendant, “ Diavolo, you lace me too tight. 
Tliink you I am a Nuremburg doll ? These Germans,” said she in 
Venetian, “do not know what shoulders are. They would make us 
square as their own old women, if we would let them. Porporina, do 
not let them bundle you up to your ears as they did last time. It was 
absurd.” 

“ Ah ! my dear, that is the empress’s order.— These ladies know it, 
and I would not make a difficulty about such a trifle.” 

“Trifle! one’s shoulders a trifle?” 

“ I do not say so of yours, for they are beautiful as possible; but — ” 

“Hypocrite!” said Gorilla, sighing; “you are ten years younger 
than I am, and the beauty of my shoulders is now traditional.” 


CONSUELO, 


473 

“ You are the hypocrite,” said Consuelo, terribly annoyed hy this 
kind of conversation— and as she wished to end it, she began at once 
to sing. 

“ Be silent,” said Gorilla at once; “ you drive a thousand poniards 
into my bosom. Ah ! I would willingly yield you all my lovers — I am 
sure to find others. I can never, however, dispute with you in the 
matter of voice and manner. Hush ! for I wish to strangle you.” 

Consuelo saw clearly that Gorilla did not jest altogether, and that 
this mocking flattery cf)ncealed real suffering. After pausing an in- 
stant, the latter said, “ How do you make that phrase? ” 

“ Do you wish to make it? Well, I will give it to you,” said Con- 
suelo, with admirable grace. “ Listen, 1 will teach you. Insert it to- 
night somewhere on your role — I will make another.” 

“ Then it will be handsomer than this, and I will gain nothing! ” 

“ No; I will make no change. Porpora does not like these things, 
and to-night he will have one reproach less to make me. See, here is 
the passage,” and she passed it through the screen to Gorilla, who be- 
gan at once to study it. Consuelo assisted her, and after repeating it 
several times, succeeded perfectly. Their toilets were yet progressing. 

Before Consuelo had put on her dress. Gorilla suddenly pushed 
aside the screen, and kissed her thankfully for the sacrifice she had 
made of the embellishment. It was not an impulse of pure gratitude 
that induced her to do so. She was also influenced by a wish to as- 
certain the fashion of her rival’s corset, in order to detect any imper- 
fection. Consuelo, however, did not lace; her waist was loose as pos- 
sible, and her chaste and noble form was indebted to art for nothing. 
She saw la Gorilla’s idea, and smiling, thought — ‘‘You may examine 
my person and look into my heart, no falsehood is there.” 

“ Zingarella,” said Gorilla, resuming, in spite of herself, her bitter, 
coarse tone ; “ do you then love Anzoleto no more? ” 

“Not in the least,” said she with a smile. 

“ Yet he loved you well.” 

“ No, no,” said Consuelo, with the same air and the same expres- 
sion of conviction. 

“ He told me so,” said Gorilla, fixing her clear blue eyes on her, ex- 
pecting to find some sorrow and to awake some regret for the past, in 
her rival’s heart. 

Consuelo was not proud of her penetration, but, like all pure and 
sincere persons, she was amply able to combat an astute one. She no 
longer loved Anzoleto; she was not ignorant of suffering, of outraged 
self-esteem, and therefore allowed Gorilla this triumph of vanity. 

“ He told you an untruth; he never loved me.” 

“ But did you never love him? ” said she, rather surprised than as- 
tonished at this confession. 

Consuelo knew that she could not make a half-confession. Gorilla 
wished to know all, and she resolved to satisfy her. She said: “I 
ioved him dearly.” 

“ And you own it? Have you no pride, child? ” 

“I had enough to overcome it.” 

“ That is to say, you were philosopher enough to seek consolation 
from another? From- that little Haydn, perhaps, who is as poor as 
possible? ” 

“ That would be nothing. I have consoled myself with no one in 
the manner you mean.” 

“ Ah! true; I forgot, you pretended. Do not say such things, my 
dear; you make yourself ridiculous.” 


* 


474 


C O N S U E L O. 


“ Then I will not, unless I am questioned ; and I will not permit 
every one to do so. I have suffered you, dear Gorilla, to take that 
liberty, but you must not abuse it, if you are my friend.” 

“ You are a perfect mask,” said Gorilla. “ You act the innocent. 
You have so much good sense, that I am inclined to think you pure, 
as I was when twelve years of age. Yet this is impossible. Ah, Zin- 
garella, you are very shrewd, and can make men believe anything you 
please.” 

“ I will make them believe nothing, for I will not permit them to 
be interested in my affairs enough to question me.” 

“ That will be best. They always make a bad use of our confes- 
sions, and no sooner wrest them from us than they take advantage of 
them. I see you know your own business. You are right in not 
wishing to inspire love. By not doing so you wall have no trouble, no 
storms. You will act freely, without deceiving any one. I could not 
act so; amid my greatest successes I always committed some folly, 
which destroyed all. I conceive a passion for some poor devil, and 
then farewell fortune! Once I could have married Zustiniani. Yes, 
I could, for he adored me, but I could not bear him. That miserable 
Anzoleto, though, pleased me. I lost my position. Give me some 
advice; you will be my friend, will you not? You will preserve me 
from the weakness of my heart, and the effects of my scheming brain. 
To begin — I must tell you that for eight dap I have had an inclina- 
tion for a man the influence of whom rapidly decays, and who, in a 
short time, may be rather injurious than beneficial to one at court. 
He is worth millions, but may be ruined in an instant. I wish to sep- 
arate myself from him before he drags me down in his own ruin. 
Ah! the devil plots against me, for here the man comes, and I feel tho 
Are of jealousy rushing to my face. Shut the screen closely, Porpo- 
rina, and do not move; I do not wish him to see you.” 

Gonsuelo closed the screen. She needed not Gorilla’s advice to 
avoid being examined by her lovers. A man’s voice, musical and 
clear, though without freshness, was heard at the door. He tapped 
for form’s sake, and came in without pausing for a reply. 

“Horrible profession!” thought Gonsuelo. “ No, I will not suffer 
myself to be influenced by the intoxication of the stage. Behind the 
scenes all things are impure. 

She sat in a corner, deeply mortified at being in such company, and 
indignant and afraid at the manner in which Gorilla had conversed 
with her. She had plunged at once into an abyss of corruption, of 
which she previously had no idea. 


CHAPTER XCV. 

While, from fear of interruption, she hastily concluded. her toilet, 
she heard the following dialogue in Italian : 

“ Why do you come here? I told you not tb come to my dressing- 
room. The empress has, under the most severe penalty, forbidden us 
to receive any one but our brother artists here; and we can only see 
them when the business of the theatre requires it. See what you ex- 
pose me to, 1 did not think things were so badly managed.” 


C () N S U E L O. 


475 

“ When people pay well they go anywhere. Beggars are the only 
people who find any difficulty in going where they please. Come 
now, be more civil, or I will never see you again.” 

“ Would to heaven that you never would! Go! Why do you 
not?” . .7 j 

“ You seem to be so anxious, that I remain out of spite.” 

“ I tell you unless you go 1 will send for the master of the theatre, 
and thus get rid of you.” 

“ He can come as soon as he is tired of life.” 

“ Are you mad ? I tell you that you compromise me by this con- 
duct, and make me violate a rule recently imposed by her majesty. 
You expose me either to a heavy fine or to discharge.” 

“ Fine ? I will pay your fine with my cane. As for a discharge, it 
is exactly what I want. I will take you to my estate, and there we 
will lead a delicious life.” 

“Follow such a brute as you? Never! Let us go out together, 
then, since you will not leave me alone.” 

“ Alone, my charmer? I wish to be sure of that before I go. That 
screen is utterly out of place in such a small room. It seems to me 
if I pushed it over I would do you a service.” 

“ Do not so, sir. A lady is dressing there. Brigand as you are, 
would you kill or injure a woman ? ” 

“ A woman ? Ah ! that is a different matter. I wish, however, to 
see if that woman does not wear a sword.” 

The screen began to tremble, and Consuelo, who had finished her 
toilet, put on her mantle, and while the first fold of the screen was 
closing, tried to open the last, and escape through the door, which was 
only a few feet distant. Gorilla, however, saw her intention, and said 
— “ Be still, Porporina; if he did not find you he would be satisfied 
some man was hidden there, and would kill me.” Consuelo resolved 
to come out, but la Gorilla had closed the screen, and prevented her 
from doing so. Perhaps she hoped that by exciting his jealousy she 
would enkindle passion enough to keep him from observing the grace 
ol her rival. 

“ If there be a lady there, let her answer me. Madam, are you 
dressed ? Can I do homage to charms ? ” 

“ Sir,” said Consuelo, in obedience to an intimation from Gorilla, 
“ keep your compliments for some one else, and excuse me. I am not 
visible.” 

“ That means, this is precisely the time to look at you,” said Go- 
rilla’s lover, attempting to go behind the screen. 

“ Take care,” said Gorilla, with a forced laugh. “ What if in place 
of a naked shepherdess you see a dowager ?” 

^^Diable! But no; her voice is too fresh to belong to a person 
more than twenty years old. Besides, if she had not been pretty, you 
would have suffered mo to see her long ago.” 

The screen was very high, and, in spite of his tallness, the lover 
could not see above it unless he threw down all the articles of Go- 
rilla’s toilet, which hung on the chairs. Now, too, that he was not 
afraid that her inmate was a man, the game amused him. 

“Madam,” said he, “if you be old and ugly, I will respect your 
asylum. If, though, you be young and handsome, do not let Gorilla 
slander you, and only give me leave to pass the lines.” Consuelo was 
silent. “ Ah ! on my word,” said he, after a moment’s silence, “ I will 
not be duped. If you were old and ugly you would not bear to hear 


476 


C O N S TJ E L O. 


yourself called so with such perfect coolness. It is because you are 
an angel that you laugh at my doubts. At all events, then, I must see 
you, for you are a prodigy of beauty, capable even of inspiring Gorilla 
with fears in relation to herself, or you are a person with mind enough 
to own that you are ugly. If that be so I shall be glad for once in my 
life to see an ugly woman without vanity.” 

He took hold of Gorilla’s arm with only two fingers, and bent it as 
if it had been a wisp of straw. She cried out that he had hurt her 
severely, and, opening the screen, exposed to Gonsuelo the horrible 
face of Baron Francis von Trenck. A rich court dress replaced his 
savage costume, but his giant form, and the large purple spots on his 
sun-burned face, made it easy to recognise at once the pitiless and 
bold leader of the Pandours. 

Gonsuelo could not repress a cry of terror, and pale w’ith fear, sank 
back on her chair. “Do not be afraid of me, madam,” said the 
baron, kneeling, “ and forgive the temerity, which, when I see you, it 
is impossible for me to regret. Let me think that it was from pity, 
(knowing that I cannot see without adoring you,) that you refused to 
see me. Do not distress me by letting me think I have frightened 
you, ugly as I am. If war has turned a handsome enough young man 
into a kind of monster, be sure it has not injured me in any other re- 
spect.” 

“ To injure you were impossible,” said Gonsuelo, turning her back 
on him. 

“ See there,” said the baron ; “ you are stern indeed, and your nurse 
must have told you some vampire stories about me, as the old women 
of this country ever do. The fair, though, do me justice, being well 
aware that if I am rude in my treatment of the enemies of my coun- 
try, I am able to civilize myself if they give me an opportunity.” 
Leaning toward the mirror in which Gonsuelo pretended to examine 
herself, he cast on it the savage, and at the same time voluptuous 
look, the brutal fascination of which had overpowered Gorilla. Gon- 
suelo saw that the only way to shake him off’ was to offend him. 

“ Baron,” said she, “ you do not inspire me with fear, but with dis- 
gust and aversion. You love to kill, and I am not afraid to die. I 
hate all sanguinary natures, and such I know yours to be; I have 
travelled after you in Bohemia.” 

The baron changed countenance, turned towards Gorilla, and said : 

“ What a she-devil this is ! The Baron Lestocq, who fired a pistol 
at me, was not more perfectly out of humor. Have I ever trampled 
down her lover? Gome, my pretty one, be at ease, for I did but jest. 
If you are ill-tempered I deserve your reproof for having suffered my- 
self to stray, though but for a moment, from my divine Gorilla.” 

“ Your divine Gorilla,” said she, “ cares very little about your vaga- 
ries. I beg you to leave — for in a moment the manager will make his 
tour — unless you are determined to get us into difficulty.” 

“ I am going,” said the baron ; “ 1 do not wish to trouble you, and 
deprive the public of the freshness of your voice by making you weep. 
My carriage will wait for you after the play. This is understood.” 
He snatched a kiss from her in the presence of Gonsuelo, and left. 

Gorilla at once threw her arms around Gonsuelo’s neck, and thank- 
ed her for having thus rid her of Von Trenck. Gonsuelo looked away, 
for Gorilla, sullied with the kiss of such a man, was an object of almost 
as much disgust as he was. 

“ How can you be jealous of so disgusting a being? ” asked Gon- 
suelo. 


C O N S U K 1. (). 


477 


** Zingarella,” said she, with a smile, “ you do not now know your 
own heart. The baron pleases more exalted women, and many who 
call themselves more virtuous than me. His form is superb, and his 
face, though covered with scars, has an attraction you could not re- 
sist if he took it into his head to pay court to you.” 

“ Ah, Gorilla, it is not his face that disgusts me, his mind is yet 
more hideous. You do not know that he has a perfect tiger’s heart.” 

“ That is what led me astray,” said Gorilla. “ To hear the common 
stories of all the fools who hover around us is a glorious thing, for- 
sooth ! To bind a tiger, though — to subdue a forest lion — to lead him 
in a leash — to make one sigh, weep, blush, and tremble at a single 
glance, whose look has routed armies — and with one blow of his sa- 
bre cut off an ox’s head — is a more intense pleasure than I have ever 
known. Anzoleto was something of that kind ; I loved him for his 
depravity; the baron, however, is much worse. The one was capable 
of beating his mistress, the baron might kill her. Oh ! I love him 
much more!” 

Poor Gorilla ! ” said Gonsuelo, looking at her with a glance of 
deep pity. 

“ You pity me, because I love him. You are right. You have 
more reason, though, to envy me. I had rather, after all, that you 
pitied than that you should contend with me for him.” 

“ Do not be afraid,” said Gonsuelo. 

“ Signora si va cominciar ! ” said the call-boy. 

“ Cominceate ! ” sang out a stentorian voice from the floor occupied 
by the dressing-rooms of the chorus. 

“ Cominceate ! ” said another melancholy and deep voice below the 
stairway, and beneath the stage. The last syllables were echoed be- 
hind the scene, until they reached the prompter, who communicated 
them to the leader of the orchestra by three taps on the floor. The 
latter tapped on his music-stand, and after the moment of palpitation 
which precedes the commencement of the overture, the symphony 
began, and silence pervaded the house, both before and behind the 
curtain. 

From the commencement of the first act of Zenobia, Gonsuelo pro- 
duced the complete and resistless effect which Haydn had predicted. 
Great talent does not always produce an infallible effect on the stage, 
even supposing that their power never declines; all parts and all cir- 
cumstances are not calculated for the development of the most bril- 
liant faculties. This was the first time that Gonsuelo had a rofe — a 
part in which she could exhibit herself in her candor, power, tender- 
ness, and purity, without regard to art and without any effort to iden- 
tify herself with an unknown person. She could forget this terrible 
labor, abandon herself to the emotion of the moment, and inspire at 
once pathetic and profound feelings, which she had not had time to 
study, and which were revealed by the magnetism of a sympathetic 
audience. She now experienced an indescribable pleasure, and deaf 
to the clamor of the crowd, in her own heart, applauded herself. 

After the first act she remained at the fly, to hear the interlude, 
and to encourage her by applause. After the second act she felt that 
repose was necessary, and went to the dressing-room. Porpora, who 
was other wise engaged, did not go with her, and Haydn, who, by the 
secret influence of the imperial patronage, had been received as one 
of the violins of the orchestra, remained at his post. 

Gonsuelo went to Gorilla’s dressing-room, the latter having given 


CONSUELO. 


478 

her the key, alone. She took a glass of water, and for a moment lay 
on the sofa. Suddenly she remembered the Pandour, and arose and 
locked the door. There was, however, no probability that he would 
come to annoy her. He had, on the rising of the curtain, gone to the 
front of the liouse, and Consuelo had seen him in one of the bal- 
conies amid her most fantastic admirers. He was passionately fond 
of music, having been born and educated in Italy, the language of 
which country he spoke perfectly. Had he been born without any 
other resources, he could have made his fortune at the theatre, his 
biographers niaintain. 

Consuelo, however, was perfectly amazed when, on returning to the 
sofa, slie saw the screen move, and the Pandour come from behind it. 

She rushed to the door, but Trenck was too quick, and placing his 
back against the lock, said : — 

“ Be calm, my charmer.” As he spoke, he put on a terrible smile. 
“ Since you share this dressing-room with Gorilla, you must grow 
used to meeting her lover here; for you cannot be ignorant that he 
too has a key to it. You have thrown yourself into the lion’s den. 
Do not call, for no one will hear you. All know the presence of mind 
of Trenck, and also his total disregard of life, the strength of his wrist, 
and his utter contempt of fools. If, in violation of the imperial order, 
he is permitted to come here, it is because among all these ballad- 
singers there is not one dares look him in the face. Why need you 
grow pale and tremble ? Have you so little confidence in me that 
you will not hear me speak three words ? Do you think me a man 
apt to violate and outrage you ? These are the gossipings of old wo- 
men. Trenck is not so bad as they say; and to prove this, he wishes 
to speak with you for a few mom'ents.” 

“ Monsieur, I will not hear one word until you have opened that 
door,” said Consuelo, regaining her presence oVraind. “ If you will 
do that, I will listen to you; but if you persist in confining me here, 
I am satisfied that, brave as you are, you dare not confront my com- 
panions, the ballad-singers.” 

“You are right,” said Trenck, throwing the door open. “As you 
are not afraid of offending me, I too prefer fresh air to being stifled 
by the musk with which Gorilla has filled all this room. You have 
done me a service.” 

While he spoke, he took possession of Consuelo’s hands, forced her 
to sit down, and placed his hands on her knees without releasing her 
own. She could not resist without bringing on a mere puerile dis- 
pute, which perhaps would provoke him to resistance, and destroy all 
scruple and respect. Consuelo saw this, and resigned herself. She 
could not resist letting fall one pale sad tear. The baron saw this, 
and instead of being moved or disarmed, suffered a wild and cruel 
joy to play on his blood-stained lips, which, by the explosion, had 
been completely excoriated. 

“ You are very unjust to me,” said he in a voice, the coarseness and 
wildness of which betrayed a most hypocritical satisfaction. “You 
hate me without knowing me, and are unwilling to hear my justifica- 
tion. I cannot, however, submit so foolishly to your aversion. One 
hour ago I cared nothing about it; but since I have heard the divine 
Porporina, I love her, and feel I must either live for her or die by her 
hand.” 

“ Do not inflict this stupid comedy on me,” said Consuelo, perfectly 
enraged. 


CONSUELO. 


479 

“Comedy?” said the baron, “ Look you here” As he spoke, he 
took a loaded pistol from his pocket and cocked it. “ Take this pis- 
tol in one of your beautiful hands, and if I have in any respect offend- 
ed you— if I am yet odious— kill me. This other hand I am resolved 
to hold as long as you will permit me to kiss it. I will give this 
favor to yourself, and you will see me wait patiently for it under the 
muzzle of this murderous weapon, w’hich you can turn on me when- 
ever you cannot resist my annoyance.” 

Trenck really gave Consuelo the weapon, and retained her left: 
hand by force while he remained on his knees with the confidence 
of the rarest fatuity. Consuelo then felt herself very strong, and 
placing the pistol so that she could use it at any moment of danger, 
said with a smile: 

“ You may speak; I listen to you.” 

As she spoke, she fancied that she heard steps in the corridor, and 
soon the shadow of some one crossing the door. The shadow, liow- 
ever, disappeared at once, either because the person returned, or that 
Consuelo’s terror was imaginary. Situated as she was, and appre- 
hending nothing but scandal, the approach of any one, whether neg- 
ative or inclined to aid her, made her rather afraid than otherwise. If 
she kept silence, the baron, found on his knees, with the door open, 
might pretend to have been favored by her; if she called for aid. the 
baron would certainly kill the first man who entered. There were fifty 
similar instances in his private career; and the victims of his passions 
had always been more or less disgraced. In this terrible alternative, 
Consuelo could devise nothing more than a prompt explanation; and 
lioped that her own presence of mind would restore Trenck’s reason, 
without having any witness to comment on or arbitrarily interpret 
this whimsical adventure. He understood her partially, and half- 
closed the door. 

“ Really, madam,” said he, returning to her, “ it would be mad to 
expose yourself to the notice of passers-by, for this difficulty we must 
settle between ourselves. Hear me: I see your fears, and know all 
the scruples of your friendship for Gorilla. Your honor, your reputa- 
tion, your truth, are yet dearer to me than these precious moments 
during which I am enabled to see you alone. I know well enough 
that the pantlier, of whom I was enamored half an hour ago. would 
accuse you of treachery if she found me at your feet. She shall not. 
I have regulated all that; and she must by her tricks amuse the pub- 
lic for yet ten mitiutes more. I have, therefore, time enough to say, 
that if I have loved her, I have forgotten her completely as I have the 
first apple I ever ate; do not therefore fear to take from her a heart 
she has lost already, but which henceforth nothing can efface your 
image. You alone, madam, rule, and may control my life. Why hes- 
itate? You have, they say, a lover. I will get rid of him in a mo- 
ment. You are watched by a malicious and ill-tempered guardian. 
I will carry you away in spite of his teeth. You liave a thousand 
plots against you in the theatre. It is true the public love you, 
but the public is ungrateful, and will desert you as soon as you begin 
to fail.” 

‘‘ I am immensely rich, and can make a princess of yon — almost a 
queen — in a savage land, but where, by a glance, I can build palaces 
and theatres vaster than those of Vienna. If you ask for an audi- 
ence, by one flash of my sword I can cause to spring from the ground 
a populace as devoted, and far more faithful than that of Vienna. 1 


480 


C O N S U E L O. 


know I am no beauty; but the scars on my face are more respectable 
and honorable than the paint on the cheeks of your buffoons. I am 
stern to my serfs, and never forgive my enemies, but to faithful ser- 
vants I am kind. Those I love swim in joy, glory and opulence. 
Sometimes 1 am violent, as you liave heard, for one cannot be brave 
and strong as I am, without being anxious to make use of power 
when vengeance or pride demand it. A pure and timid woman, 
though, gentle and charming as you are, may subdue my pow'er, and 
keep me like a child at her feet. Try to do so. Be mine secretly for 
a time, and you will see that you can confide your future fate to me, 
and accompany me to Sclavonia. 

You smile. My country reminds you of slavery, but, divine Por- 
porina, I will be the slave. Look at me, and grow used to this want 
of beauty, which your love would cause to disappear. Speak but the 
word, and yon will see that Trenck, the Austrian, from his red eyes 
can shed tears of love and joy as well as his dear Prussian cousin 
whom he loves, though they have fought in opposite ranks, and to 
whom, as people say, you were not indifferent. The Prussian, how- 
ever, is a child, while I, though yet young, (I am but thirty-five, 
wrinkled as my face is,) seem twice as old as he is. I have passed the 
age of caprice, and can promise you long years of happiness. Speak, 
speak to me, and you will see that passion can transform Trenck, the 
Pandour, into a .tupifor. You do not answer; a touching modesty 
makes you hesitate. You say nothing. Suffer me to kiss your hand 
and withdraw, full of hope and happiness. See if I am a brute and 
a tiger, as I have been described. 1 ask but an innocent favor, and I 
implore it on my knees.” 

Consuclo looked at the Pandou*', the seducer of so many women, with 
complete surprise. She carefully studied the secret of that fascina- 
tion which, in spite of his deformity, would have been so irresistible, 
had he been a good and sincere man, and if his passion had not been 
the Quixotism of impertinent presumption. 

“ Have you done, baron? ” she said, cahnly; but suddenly-'she grew 
pale, as she saw a handful of diamonds, pearls, and huge rubies, which 
the tyrant had thrown in her lap. She rose abruptly, and suffered all 
these gems to fall o?i the floor. Gorilla would pick them up. 

“Trenck,” said she, with the deepest disgust and indignation, “ in 
spite of your vaunted courage, you are a vile coward. You have oidy 
fought with flocks and herds, and then you slew vvitliout juty. From 
a true man you would have fled like a v'olf, as you are. All these 
glorious scars, I am well awai’e, were received in a cave where you 
fought for gold amid the carcasses of your victims. Your castle and 
your little kingdom are formed from the blood of a noble pe{)ple, on 
whom despotism inflicts such a compatriot as you are for a ruler. 
You have robbed the orphan of bread, the widow of her mite — your 
gold is the price of treachery — your riches the pillage of churches. 
Your Prussian cousin, whom you love so tenderly, you have betrayed 
and wished to murder; the women, the glory of whom you say you 
have made, you have violated, after murdering their lovers and hus- 
bands. The tenderness for me, of which you boast so much, is the 
whim of a worn-out libertine. This chivalVic submission which in- 
duced you to place your life in my hands, is but a trifling favor. To 
slay you would be a disgrace, from which I could only purify myself 
by suicide. This is all I have to say, Pandour. Quit my sight, for if 
you do not let go my hand, which you have held, and which for the 


CONSUELO, 


481 


last half hour has grown like ice in your own, I will blow out your 
brains and purify the earth from your presence.” 

“ Is that all you have to say, she devil ? Well, the pistol I have 
placed in your hand is unfortunately loaded with powder. One scar 
more or less would do no harm to one fire-proof, as I am. Fire the 
pistol — make a noise — that is all I want. I shall be satisfied with hav- 
ing witnesses of my victory. Nothing now can shield you from my 
embraces, and by your folly you have aroused a fire which, by a little 
prudence, you might have restrained.” 

While speaking thus, Trenck seized Consuelo in his arms; just 
then, however, the door opened, and a man, the face of whom was 
completely covered by a crape mask, placed his hand on the Pandour 
and made him tremble and quail like a reed in the wind, and furi- 
ously cast him on the ground. All this took place in the course of a 
second. Trenck, completely astounded, rose up with haggard eyes 
and a foaming mouth. He drew his sword and rushed on his enemy, 
who went to the door and seemed to fly. Consuelo also hurried to 
the door, fancying that in this man she recognized the form and bear- 
ing of Albert. She saw him go to the end of the passage, where a 
winding staircase descended lapidly to the street. There he paused 
— waited for Trenck — stooped quickly, suffering the baron’s sword to 
strike the wall. He then took him in his arms and threw him over 
his shoulders, liead foremost, down the stairway. Consuelo heard the 
giant fall down the steps. She wished to hurry after the unknown, 
and call him Albert. He had disappeared, however, before she had 
strength enough to make three steps. There was a terrible silence on 
the whole staircase. 

“ Signora, cinque minuti,'’’ said the call-boy kindly, as he came 
from the theatre up the stairway, which ended at the same place. He 
then said — “ How came this door open ? ” as he saw the door through 
which Trenck had been thrown. “ Indeed your ladyship has run a 
great risk of taking cold.” He shut the door and locked it, in obedi- 
ence to orders; while Consuelo, more dead than alive, returned to her 
dressing-room, and threw out of the window the pistol which had re- 
mained on the sofa, kicked under the furiiiture the gems and rubies 
which yet glistened on the carpet, and went to the theatre, where she 
found Corilla yet blushing and panting at her triumph, in the inter- 
lude. 


CHAPTER XCVL 

In spite of the agitation which had convulsed Consuelo, she stir- 
passed herself even in the third act. She had not expected this, nor 
did she rely on it. She went on the stage with the resolution of fail- 
ing with honor, when suddenly she recovered her powers. She was 
not afraid. A thousand hisses would have been nothing compared 
with the danger and terror from which she had escaped, by a kind of 
miraculous intervention. Another miracle ensued ; the good genius 
of Consuelo seemed to watch over her. She had more voice than she 
ever had, and sung with more mastery, playing at the same time with 
more energy and passion than she had as yet done. All her being 
seemed to be exalted to the highest pitch, and it seemed every instant 

so 


482 


CONSUELO. 


that, like too tense a chord, she was about to snap. A feverish excite^ 
ment, however, transported her to a higher sphei-e, and she acted as 
if she were in a dream, amazed at her own capacity. 

Whenever she feared a failure, a thought of happiness revived her. 
Albert was there, beyond doubt. He had been in Vienna since the 
day before, beyond any doubt. He observed and watclu'd her mo- 
tions. He watched over her. To whom else could she attribute the 
unforseen aid she had just received, and the almost supernatural 
power which was required to strike down the Pandour, Trenck, the 
Sclavonian Hercules? What if from one of the wliiins of whieli his 
character offered but too many examples, he refused to speak to her, 
— if he seemed to wish to avoid her, it M^as not on account, evidently, 
that he did not love her ardently. Did he not watch and protect her 
anxiously, and defend her boldly? 

“Well!” said Consuelo, “since God permits my power not to de- 
sert me, I wish Albert to see me succe^ in my role, and that from 
some corner of the theatre, where, doubtless, he witnesses a triumj)!! 
for which I am indebted neither to a cabal nor to Charlatanism.” 

Though she maintained the character of her role, she looked 
around for him. It was in vain, however, and when she went behind 
the scenes, she yet again searched, but to no purpose. “Where could 
he be? Where did he hide himself? Had be killed the Pandour 
when he threw him over the stair-way? Was he forced to conceal 
himself to avoid pur-suit? Why not ask Porpora to protect him? 
Would she see him when she returned to the embassy? All these 
annoyances disappeared when she went on the stage. She foi-got 
then, as if by some magic influence, every circumstance of i-eal life, 
and experienced only a vague anxiety of mingled enthusiasm, terror, 
gratitude and hope. AH this was in her part, and was exhibited in 
admirable accents of tenderness and ti-uth. 

She was called out after the opera, and the empress thr-ew a bou- 
quet — to M’hich was attached a pi-esent of considei-able value — to her-. 
The coui-t and the people followed her example, and thei-e was a per- 
fect shower of flowers. Anrid all these per fumed offer ings Consuelo 
saw fall at her feet, was a green br-anch, to which her eyes became in- 
voluntarily fastened. As soon as the cur-tain had fallerr, she picked it 
up. It was a cypr-ess br-arrch. She for-got all the offerings made to 
lier sirccess, to contenrplate and comrnerrt on this furtereal emblem of 
gr-lef arrd dismay, per-haps the token of an adieu. A violerrt chill strc- 
ceeded the fever of emotion, and a cloird passed befoi-e her eyes. 
Her- str-ength gave way. and almost faintirrg, she was takerr to the 
horrse of the Venetian ambassador. She yet had rrnder her cloak the 
cypress boirgh, which had exer-ted so terrible arr influence over her-. 

As she went down the staircase she saw tro stairr of blood. In the 
confusion of the depar tur e rro orre else had. While, however-, she was 
going hotrto, absorbed in her own meditations, a sad scerte was pass- 
ing with closed doors, in the greerr-room. Just befor-e the ertd of the 
spectacle, the scetre-shifter*s had fourrd Baron Tr-enck at the foot of 
the staircase per-fectly insensible, and covered wdth blood. He had 
been taker) to orre of the rooms, and to avoid corrfusion, the manager 
and the physician of the theatre, and also the police had been serrt 
for-. The pirblic and the cornparry then left the building, withorrt 
beirrg avvar-e of what had happerred. While the pr-ofessional people, 
the emperial oflicer-s, and some kindly-disposed persorrs w'aited to 
succor the Pandour, Corilla, who was waiting her lovePs carriage 


C O N S U E L O, 


483 


and who had several times sent her maid tc enquire — went down 
alone, notwithstanding the risk of being forced to return home on 
foot. She met Holzbaiier, who was aware of what was going on be- 
tween Trenck and herself, and who took her to the green-room, 
where she found him with his head crushed and his body so contused, 
that he could not move. Her sighs were loud and long; and Holz- 
bauer, after dismissing all useless persons, shut the doors. The singer 
could say or think of nothing which would throw any light on the 
affair. At last Trenck having somewhat revived, said that he had 
come into the theatre without leave, to see the dancing girls, and that 
being anxious to leave, he had proceeded quickly down the passage. 
Not being familiar, however, with the house, he had stumbled at the 
top of the narrow stair-way and rolled to the bottom. All were satis- 
fied with this explanation, and he was taken home, where Gorilla 
nursed him so zealously that she lost Prince Kaunitz’ favor, and con- 
sequently her majesty’s good will. She, however, made the sacrifice; 
and Trenck, the iron frame of whom had resisted ruder shocks by far, 
after the expiration of a week was able to come out, with only one 
more scar on his head. He told no one of his mischance, only re- 
solving to make Consuelo atone dearly for it. This he doubtless 
would have done, had not an order for his arrest torn him from Go- 
rilla’s arms and hurried him to a military prison, before he had 
entirely recovered from a fever which ensued from the effects of his 
accident. 

What rumor had vaguely informed the canon of began to be real- 
ized. The Pandour’s wealth had awakened intense hostility against 
him in the midst of many influential men. He was a memorable vic- 
tim. Accused of all the crimes he had committed, and of others at- 
tributed to him by interested persons, he had to writhe under the de- 
lays, the vexations, the impudent prevarications and injustices of a 
long and scandalous trial. We will leave him until a new order, in 
prison, where, having committed some infraction of the police, he 
was chained by the foot — disgracefully, too, for the government — by 
that very foot, broken by a bomb in one of his most famous exploits. 
After undergoing a most terrible operation, before his health was fully 
re-established, he had mounted his horse to resume his command. 
Around this scar an iron fetter was placed. The great queen, (who 
liad not been offejided when he oppressed and lacerated Bohemia, a 
rampart by no means strong enough to protect her from the enemy, 
on account of old national enmity,) Maria Theresa, no longer need- 
ing the crimes of Trenck and his Pandours to protect her throne, 
iK)W fancied them unpardonable, and was thought to be ignorant of 
this cruel treatment — precisely as Frederick was supposed to be igno- 
rant of the atrocity and torture, borne in a dungeon, loaded with 
chains weighing sixty-eight pounds, by another Baron Trenck, who 
had been his own page and aide, and who was the savior of Gonsuelo. 
The flatterers have slightly mentioned these atrocities, or attributed 
them to obscure subaltern officers, as a means of purifying the mem- 
ory of their masters. These sovereigns, however, were not ignorant 
as they would be thought; but, on the contrary, knew all that passed. 
Frederick, himself, furnished the design of Trenck’s chains, which 
that gallant man wore in Magdebuig for nine years; and if Maria 
Theresa did not precisely order the Austrian to be chained by his 
wounded foot, she refused to listen to his complaints, and was insen- 
sible to all he said. Besides, from tlie scandalous orgies her agents 


CONSUELO. 


484 

carried on with the wealth of the fallen Pandour, she contrived to 
save a portion, which she refused to restore to his heirs. 

Let us return to Consuelo ; for it is the duty of a writer of romance 
to pass rapidly as possible over historical details. When she learned 
what had befallen the Pandour, she forgot the outrages with which he 
had menaced her; and, deeply touched by his misfortune, aided Gor- 
illa in sending him money at a time when the means of softening his 
captivity were refused him. Gorilla, ever more anxious to spend than 
earn money, was without funds w'hen an emissary of her lover came 
to ask for what he needed. Consuelo was the only person to whom 
she dared apply; and the latter at once sold the present which the em- 
press had made her at the conclusion of Zenobia, giving the proceeds 
to her companion, whose conduct in not deserting Trenck now that 
he was unfortunate, she fully approved of. Gorilla’s zeal and courage 
in assisting her lover, inspired Consuelo to regard with a kind of es- 
teem this corrupted creature, who was not, however, absolutely per- 
verse, yet retaining many kind emotions, and much disinterested feel- 
ing. Joseph and herself had much conversation about this, and Coii- 
suelo justified herself for her sympathy to her own satisfaction. 

Thus, fifteen days passed after the performance of Zenobia, and 
the adventure of Baron Trenck. The six representations for which 
she had been engaged were passed, and Madame Tesi had returned to 
the theatre. The empress, through the ambassador, Korner, exerted 
a great influence over Porpora, and made Consuelo’s marriage with 
Haydn the condition of a permanent engagement in the Imperial 
Theatre, after the expiration of that of la Tesi. Joseph was ignorant 
of all this, and Consuelo had no suspicion of it. She thought of 
nothing except the absence of Albert, and the fact that she had re- 
ceived no news of him. A thousand suspicions and contradictory 
ideas passed through her mind, from the effects of w'hich she became 
much excited. She had not left her room since the cessation of her 
engagement; and looked constantly at the cypress-branch, which 
seemed to hare been taken from some tomb in the grotto of Schreck- 
enstein. 

Beppo, the only friend to whom she could speak openly, sought at 
first to persuade her that Albert had not come to Vienna. When, 
however, she showed him the cypress-bough, he thought over all this 
mystery, and concluded that the young count had something to do 
W'ith Trenck’s mischance. 

“ I think,” said he, “ that I see how all has happened. Albert 
came to Vienna, saw, and heard you; he has observed all you did, 
and watched your every step. On the day we were talking on the 
stage, in front of the curtain, representing the Araxes, he was behind, 
and heard my regret at seeing you borne from the theatre at the very 
advent of your glory. You uttered some exclamation to the same pur- 
pose, which made him fancy that you preferred the eclcU of your 
career to the solemn sadness of his love. On the next day, he saw 
you enter Gorilla’s room ; and perhaps, for he was on the look-out, 
saw the Pandour go thither previously. His delay in aiding you, 
proves that he thought you had gone thither willingly, and, after he 
had fallen a victim to the temptations of eaves-dropping, he came so 
opportunely to your aid.” 

“ Well,” said Consuelo; “ but w'hy act so mysteriously? — why wear 
the mask?” 

“ You know what the Austrian police is. Perhaps he has enemies 


C O N S U E L O. 


485 

at court, or had political reasons for concealment. It may be his face 
was not unknown to Trenck — who knows, if during the recent war 
he may not have seen him in Bohemia, and offended him, or protect- 
ed some one whom he wished to injure? Count Albert may have 
performed bold and courageous deeds, while all fancied he slumbered 
at Schreckenstein: at all events, he is not the man to talk of himself, 
being the most modest and innocent of men. He was then prudent 
in not chastising the Pandour with his face bare: if the empress to- 
day punishes Trenck for having devasted Bohemia, be sure she will 
not forgive any Bohemian, who, in other days, resisted the Pandour.” 

“All you say is very true, Joseph, and makes me think; now a 
thousand anxieties fill my mind, Albert may have been recognised and 
arrested, without the public being any more acquainted with the fact 
than with Trenck’s fall down the stairway. Alas 1 he may now be 
imprisoned in the arsenal, side by side with Trenck. This misfortune 
he undergoes for me.” 

“ Be calm— I do not think this is the case. Albert left Vienna at 
once, and you will soon receive a letter from him at Riesenberg.” 

“ Have you a presentiment to that effect? ” 

“ Yes, I have. If, however, you wish to know all, I think this letter 
will be different from what you wish. I am satisfied, that far from 
persisting in asking from a generous friendship the sacrifice of your 
artistic career, he has abandoned all idea of marriage, and will restore 
you your liberty. If he is intelligent, noble, and just, as you say he 
is, he will have great scruples in taking you from the theatre, to which 
you are passionately devoted. Do not deny the fact. I saw' it; and, 
after hearing Zenobia, he too must. He will then regret so great a 
sacrifice: if he did not, I would not respect him.” 

“ But read his last note. Here it is. Did he not say he would 
love me on the stage as well as in any other position ? Could he not 
marry me, and yet leave me free? ” 

“To say and to do, — to think and to be, — are totally different: 
when, though reality is before us, we return to our old ideas. I can 
never think that a nobleman can see his wife exposed to the whims 
and caprices of a partner. When, certainly for the first time in his 
life, the count went behind the scenes, he saw in Trenck’s conduct a 
sad exemplification of the perils of theatrical life. He withdrew in 
despair, perhaps, but perfectly cured of his passion and fancies. Ex- 
cuse me speaking thus to you, Consuelo, but Count Albert’s desertion 
to you is a real benefit. You will one day see it yourself, though now 
your eyes are filled with tears. Be just then to him, and do not be 
humiliated at tliis change. When he said he had no objection to the 
theatre, he talked of an ideal, which crumbled at the touch of truth. 
He saw, that in taking you from the stage, he would make you un- 
happy, or that if he accompanied you, he would be so himself.” 

“You are right, Joseph; I see you are. The humiliation of being 
deserted and neglected does not trouble me: I regret the ideal of love 
I had formed, as Albert, perhaps, had of the stage. He has now, per- 
haps, seen that I could not keep myself worthy of him, (at least in 
man’s opinion,) in such a profession. I, too, am forced to own, that 
my love is not great enough to overcome every obstacle and pre- 
judice.” 

“ Be just, Consuelo, and do not ask more than you can yield You 
did not love deeply enough to renounce art without hesitation, ;uh1 
do not complain that Count Albert could break with the world with- 
out terror and prostration.” 


486 


C O N S U E L O. 


“ Great., thongli, as was my secret agony, (I will now own it,) I was 
ready to sacrifice every thing to him.” 

“ Remember he was passionate — not you. You consented with 
difficulty. He saw well that you were about to immolate yourself, 
and saw that he had a right not only to free you from a love you had 
not courted, the necessity for which your soul did not recognise, but 
that his, conscience required him to do so.” 

This conclusion satisfied Consuelo of Albert’s prudence and gen- 
erosity. She was afraid if she abandoned herself to grief, she yielded 
to the suggestions of wounded pride; and, following Joseph’s sug- 
gestions, calmed herself. With a whimsicality, however, not unfre- 
quent in the human heart, she no sooner saw herself free to follow 
her theatrical taste, without aught to distract her, than she became 
aware of her isolation in that corrupt society, and became terrified at 
the difficulties which appeared befbre her. The stage is a brilliant 
arena; and, when once on it, we become exalted, and all the ordinary 
emotions of life seem dull and tame compared with it. But, when 
one leaves it, exhausted and weary, it is with shuddering fear at the 
ordeal undergone, and a return to it is contradicted by fear. I imag- 
ine the acrobat is the type of this painful, arduous, and terrible life. 
He must experience a nervous pleasure on the cords and ladders, on 
which he performs feats beyond human power; but, when he has 
once left the rope, he must tremble at the very idea of ascending it 
agairj, and braving death and triumph, the two faces of the spectre 
ever before him. 

Then the Giants’ Castle, hitherto an object of terror, and a perpet- 
ual nightmare, seemed to Consuelo, through the veil of her exile, a 
paradise lost, a sojourn of peace and candor, ever holy and venerable. 
She bound the cypress-bough, the last relique of the Hussite cavern, 
to the foot of her mother's crucifix, and uniting these two emblems 
of Catholicism and heresy, exalted her heart to the idea of the sole 
eternal and absolute religion. There she poured all the sentiment of 
resignation to personal ills, and faith in the providential designs of 
God and Albert, seeing that henceforth she must journey through life 
alone, and without a guide 


CHAPTER XCVII. 

One morning, Porpora setit for her earlier than usual, and she 
found the maestro perfectly happy, with a letter in one hand and his 
spectacles in the other. Consuelo trembled in every limb, imagining 
that at last an answer was come from Riesenberg. She was, how- 
ever, soon undeceived, the letter being from Hubert, the Porporino. 
This famous singer told the maestro that the engagement of Consu- 
elo was determined on, and he sent a contract sigtied by Baron Poel- 
nitz, director of the Theatre-Royal of Berlin, which needed only the 
signature of Porpora and of Coiisuelo. The baron had also written 
a very fiattering letter which invited Porpora to contend for the mu- 
sical control of the Royal Chapel, and to produce as many operas and 
fugues as he wished, by means of which he might prove his capacity. 
Porporino was delighted at the idea of being able to sing so soon after 


C O N S U E ]. n. 


487 

his own heart, with a musical sister, and besought rue maestro at once 
to leave Vienna, for Sana Soiici, the delicious home of Frederic the 
Great. 

This letter delighted Porpora, yet it filled him with uncertainty. 
It seemed to him tliat Fortune was about to smooth her angry brow, 
and that from two quarters royal favor (then so necessary to artistes,) 
offered him brilliant prospects. Frederic invited him to Berlin : at 
Vienna, Maria Theresa made brilliant promises. Consuelo, in both 
instances was the instrument of his success; for at Berlin she best 
could exhibit his compositions— at Vienna she could provide for him 
by marrying Joseph Haydn. 

The time had then come, when his fate was in the hands of his 
adopted daughter. He asked her to marry or go with him, as she 
chose: and, under the circumstances, was far less urgent that she 
should marry Joseph Haydn than he otherwise would have done. He 
was a little weary of Vienna, and the idea of being feted and caressed 
by the etnpress’s enemy, seemed a little revenge— the effect of which 
at the, Austrian court he probably exaggerated. At all events, as 
Consuelo spoke no more of Albert, he preferred the idea of her not 
marrying at all. 

Consuelo soon put an end to all his doubts, by saying that, for many 
reasons, she would not marry Joseph Haydn at all. The first was, 
that he had never courted her, and was engaged to the daughter of 
his benefactor, Anna Keller. 

“ Then,” said Porpora, “ there is no choice. Here is a contract for 
your engagement at Berlin : sign, and let us prepare to go, for there 
is no hope for you here, unless you submit to the empress’s matrimo- 
rdo-mania. Tl)at is the price of her protection, and a positive refusal 
will make, us seem to her worse than devils.” 

“ My dear maestro,” said Consuelo, with more firmness than she 
had ever yet exhil)ited to Porpora, “ I am ready to obey you as soon 
as I am satisfied about one important matter. There exist certain re- 
lations of esteem and respect between the Count of Rodolstadt and 
myself; I will not deny it, in spite of all your sneers and laughter. I 
have since we separated kept myself free from every engagement in- 
compatible with this marriage. After a letter, however, which I wrote 
him, six weeks ago, things have happened w'hich induce me to think 
the Rudolstadt family have given me up. Every day that passes in- 
duces me to think this is the case, that I have been released and am 
free to consecrate all my care and toil to you; and I accept such a 
career without any hesitation. Yet, after the letter I have written, I 
cannot be at ease until I receive an answer. I expect it every day, 
and it must come soon. Postpone the signing of the contract until 
after ” 

“ My poor child,” said Porpora, who as soon as she began to speak, 
prepared to discharge the guns he had long kept loaded; the answer 
you look for was sent to me a month ago.” 

“ And you did not show it to me? You left me in this terrible un- 
certainty? Maestro, you are a strange man. What confidence can I 
have in you, if you treat me thus — if you deceive me? ” 

“ How did I? The letter was written to me, and I was enjoined 
not to show it to you until I saw you had recovered from your mad 
passion, atul disposed to be reasonable and prudent.” 

“Did he write thus?” said (’onsuelo. blushing. ” It is ijnpossible 
that either Count Christian or Count Albert haA^e thus spoken of sc 
pure and calm an affection as mine.” 


488 


C () N S U E L U. 


“ Words mean nothing,” said Porpora. “ Men of the cirorld always 
use big words, and we must understand them. As the ^dd count was 
not anxious to have a daughter on the stage, as soon m he knew you 
were here, he made his son abandon all idea of the marriage. Albert 
found good reason for doing what he has done, I assure you. I see 
with pleasure that you are not angry. That is all aj it should be; 
and we will be off for Prussia.” 

“ Maestro, show me the letter, and I will sign the contract at once.” 

“ Why ask to see the letter? There are certain follies we must for- 
give in others, and in ourselves forget.” 

“ We cannot forget what we choose. Eeflection aids and causes 
help us not to do so. If I have been repelled from Rudolstadt with 
disdain, I will soon be consoled. If I am restored to liberty, with 
esteem and affection, I will be consoled with less difficulty. Show me 
the letter. What are you afraid of; for, one way or the other, 1 shall 
certainly obey.” 

“ Well, I will, said the ill-tempered maestro, opening his secretary 
and pretending to look for the letter. He searched every drawer, 
moved all his papers, and the letter (which had never existed) could 
not be found. He pretended to grow impatient, while Consuelo really 
was so. She set about looking for it; overturned his drawers and 
papers. No letter. Porpora sought to remember it, and to impro- 
vise a polite and civil epistle. Consuelo could not suspect Porpora of 
so wholesale a misrepresentation. 

For the honor of the maestro, we must imagine that he got out of 
the affair very badly, and Consuelo fancied that in a moment of ab- 
straction he had lighted his pipe with the letter; and after having re- 
tired to her room to pray, and to swear on the cypress bough eternal 
friendship to Albert, she returned tranquilly to sign an engagement 
to begin at the termination of the present one. Tliis time w'as more 
than necessary for the completion of the preparations for her depart- 
ure and joiu ney. When Porpora saw the contract complete, he kiss- 
ed Consuelo, and saluted her formally by her title of artiste. 

‘‘ This,” said he, “ is your day of confirmation, and were it in my 
power to force you to make a vow, I would insist on your renuncia- 
tion of love and marriage. You are now’ a priestess of the goddess 
Harmonia; the muses are virgins, and she who consecrates herself to 
Apollo should take the vestal vow.” 

“ I will not promise not to marry,” said Consuelo, “ though just 
now it seems to me it would be easy to do so. I may, however, 
change my mind, and might repent of a promise I could not break.” 

“You are then a slave of your word. Yes, it seems to me in that 
respect you differ from all the human race. If you made a solemn 
promise, you would keep it.” 

“ Master, I think I have proved this. All my life I have been un- 
der the influence of some vow. My mother set me an example of 
this kind of religion, which she pushed almost to absurdity. When 
we travelled together, and drew near a large city, she would say, 

‘ Consuelo, if I do well here, I call you to witness that I go barefooted 
and pray for two hours in the holiest chapel of the country.’ When, 
poor soul, she fared well — that is to say, when she earned a few 
crowns by her songs — she always kept her vow’, w’ithout regard to 
weather or distance. This was not a very enlightened or sublime de- 
votion; but I look on these vows as holy. When on her death-bed, 
my mother made me swear never to be Anzoleto’s, except in legiti- 


CONSUELO. 


489 


mate marriage, she knew that she could confide in my oath, and 
died in peace. Subsequently, I promised Albert to think of no one 
else, and to do all I could to love him. I did not violate my promise, 
and had he not released me, I could have been faithful all my life.” 

Have done with your Count Albert, for you should not think of 
hini. If you must be under the influence of some vow, tell me how 
you will engage yourself to me? ” 

“Maestro, confide in my reason, in ray devotion to you. Ask me 
for no oath, for you would thus lay a terrible burden on me. The 
fear of violating it destroys all pleasure in acting and in thinking 
rightly.” 

*• I do not like that,” said Porpora, half in earnest. “ I see you have 
made vows to every one but me. Let us talk, however, of the one 
you made to your mother. It was of infinite service to you, my ooor 
cliild, and without it you would perhaps have been enamored of that 
infamous Anzoleto. But, subsequently, without love, and from pure 
goodness of heart, you made important promises to Rudolstadt, who 
was almost a stranger, and 1 shall thitik it very hard, if, on a day like 
this, made famous by your restoration to liberty and art, you will make 
no vow to your own i»rofessor — to your best friend.” 

“ Yes; my best friend.and benefactor, my aid and my father.” said 
Consnelo, casting herself into Porpora’s arms, who was so sparing of 
his kind words that twice or thrice only had he permitted his heart 
to exhibit any paternal love; “lean unhesitatingly vow to devote 
myself to your glory and fame, so long as my life lasts.” 

“ My happiness,” said Porpora, clasping her to his heart, “ is in my 
fame. 1 know no other. I am not one of those German dolts who 
di’eam of no other happiness than to have a daughter to feel their 
pulses or warm their gruel. I want neither; If I did, I would not 
consent for you to sacrifice your time to me. You sacrifice too much 
already. This is not what I need. I require you to be only an artist 
— a great artist. Will you be — will you combat this languor, this 
irresolution, this feeling of disgust you had at first? Will you reject 
the compliments of the fine gentlemen who run after actresses, some 
because they think them good housewives, and abandon them as soon 
as they find out the contrary; and others, because, having lost their 
fortunes, they find it very comfortable to keep a coach and table at 
the expense of their better halves; and, on tliat account, willing to 
forset the estimation in which the public holds marriages of this kind. 
Will you promise to suffer no little tenor, with a smooth voice and 
graceful curls, to turn your head, as that Anzoleto did, who has no 
grace except in his legs, and no success but from his impudence? ” 

" I promise and swear to all this,” said Consnelo, laughing at the 
simplicity of Porpora’s strong exhortation. “ I will do more — I will 
swear that you shall never have to complain that I have been ungrate- 
ful, as long as I may live.” 

“ Ah, that is more than I dare to ask. It is too much for human 
nature to promise. When you are a great singer, and known over all 
Europe, you will be vain and ambitious, for such every great artist 
must be. You will insist at all risks on success. You will not strive 
patiently for it, or endanger it by fidelity to friendship or the worship 
of the beautiful. You will act like others, and sing popular music 
without regard to the bad taste of the people and court. You will 
succeed and be great in spite of all that, without which you cannot 
please the masses. If you will think carefully, when you sing before 


490 


C O N S U E L O. 


a few old fellows like myself,— the great Handel or old Bach— you will 
be a credit to Porpora and yourself. I ask and hope nothing more. 
You see your father is not an egotist, as some of your flatterers say I 
am. I ask of you nothing that does not advance your fame and 
glory.” 

“ I am careless,” said Consuelo, “ of what merely redounds to my 
own glory. 1 can suffer myself to be carried away by the involuntary 
intoxication of success; but I cannot think coldly of a whole life of 
triumph, and then crown myself. I wish glory for you, maestro. 
Notwithstanding your incredulity, I wish you to see Consuelo lives 
for you alone; and to satisfy you that you have calumniated me, I 
make a promise to you beforehand.” 

“ And on what do you make that vow? ” said Porpora, with an ex- 
pression of mingled confidence and distrust. 

They were inten upted by Count Hoditz, whom a grand lieyduc an- 
nounced. The servant asked permission for his master to pay his re- 
spects to Porpora and his pupil, and looked at the latter witli an ex- 
pression which surprised her, who remembered that she had some- 
where seen his strange though handsome face. The Count was ad- 
mitted, and made known his wishes in the most courteous terms. He 
was about to go to his estate at Roswald, in Moravia, and. wishing to 
make it pleasant to the margravine, his wife, intended to surprise her 
by a magnificent festival. He wished Consuelo to sing three evenings 
at Roswald, and requested Porpora to superintend the spectacles, con- 
certs, and serenades. 

Porpora told him of his engagements at Berlin, the contract for 
which Hoditz wished to see. This enabled the nobleman to give 
some good advice, and led to his urging Porpora in yet stronger terms 
to accept the offer. “ You can,” said he, ” make your preparations 
m three days, and go to Berlin through Moravia. It is not exactly 
the road; but, instead of your journeying slowly through Bohemia, 
scarcely yet recovered from the devastation of war, you can travel 
more quickly to Roswald in a carriage. I will place at your dis- 
posal — ” 

[This meant that they should travel at the Count’s expense.] 

He then promised to send them to Pardubitz, in case they wished 
to go down the Elbe to Dresden, or to Chrudim, if they wished to go 
by Prague. The facilities he offered really would shorten the journey 
most of the way, and the round sum he offered enabled them to make 
the rest of it more comfortable. Porpora accepted the offer, in spite 
of the look of Consuelo to dissuade him. The bargain was made, 
atul the last day of the week appointed for setting out 

When he had kissed her hand respectfully, Hoditz left Consuelo 
with her maestro, who reproached him with having been so easily 
won. — Though she had no longer to bear the count’s impertinences, 
she was yet a little angry with him, and did not, willingly, go to his 
house. She did not wish to tell Porpora what had happened at Pas- 
sau, but reminded him of what he had said about the musical inven- 
tions of Count Hoditz. 

“Do you not see,” said she, “ that I shall have to sing his music, 
and you will be forced seriously to conduct operas and cantatas in his 
style. Is this the way you wish me to keep my vow, to remain faith- 
ful to the worship of the beautiful?” 

“ Enough!” said Porpora. with a smile; “I will not be so stern as 
you think I am. I expect, however, to amuse myself witliout my lord 


C O N S U E L (). 


491 


having any suspicion of the matter. To do such things seriously, be- 
fore a respectable public, would be blasphemy and disgraceful. One 
may amuse one’s self, however; and an artist while earning his bread 
would be very unfortunate, if he could not laugh at those who enable 
him to obtain it. You will also see the Princess of Culmbach, who is 
a very charming personage — she will laugh with us, though she rarely 
ventures to laugh at her father in his music.” 

She had to yield — make up her bundles, and bid all good-bye. 
Joseph was in despair. Just then, however, a great piece of good for- 
tune happened to him, which, if it did not atone, averted his attention 
from the pain of the separation. While playing his serenade beneath 
the window of Beiaiavdoni. the clown, the famous harlequin of the 
theatre of the Corinthian gate — tliat amiable artist had been stricken 
with the power of his music. Bernardoni sent for him, made him 
come up stairs, and asked who was the composer of this sympathetic 
and original music. He was amazed at his power and talent, and 
gave him, before they jiarted, the words of a ballet called Le Diable 
Boiteux, the music of which he had begun to write. He was in the 
midst of the tempest, which gave him such ti’ouhle that when he was 
eighty years of age, Haydn continued to laugh at it. Consuelo sought 
to amu.se him, by speaking of the tempest which Bernardoni wished 
to be terrible, and which Beppo, who never had seen the sea, could 
not describe. Consuelo described the Adriatic to him, and sought to 
make him understand the motion of the waves — not, however, with- 
out laughing with him at the effect of her imitative harmony, aided 
by blue cloths, shaken up and down by men standing at the flies. 

“Listen tome,” said Porpora; “you may try for a hundred years 
with the sublimest instruments and the most perfect knowledge of the 
motion of the winds and waves, before you can at all represent the 
harmony of nature. This is not a fit object for music, which goes 
astray when it seeks for power and sonorousness. It has a wider 
field. All emotion is its domain. Its object is inspiration, and its 
origin also is inspired. Imagine, then, the impressions of a man 
abandoned to this torment — a danger awful, terrible, and imminent. 
Let a musician place himself— that is, let a human vibrating, living 
soul be fixed amid this distress and disorder — this desertion and de- 
spair — give vent to his sorrow, and the audience, whether it respond 
to it or not, will participate in this. It will fancy that it hears the sea, 
the crushing of ships, the cry of the sailors, and the despair of the 
passengers ! What would you say of a poet who, in describing a bat- 
tle said, that the canon said boom, boom, and the drums plan, plan f 
Yet this would be an exact harmonic imitation. It would not, how- 
ever, be poetry. Painting, the descriptive art par excellence, is not a 
mere servile imitation. In vain would the artist paint the sea green, 
the stoi-my sky black, and the ship wrecked. If he be unable to de- 
scribe terror and the tout ensemble, his picture will be colorless, 
though brilliant as the sign of a beer-cellar. Fill yourself, young 
man, therefore, wdth the idea of a great disaster; in that way you will 
excite others.” 

Thus paternally he spoke, while the carriage was being harnessed 
in the yard, and the trunks were being fastened on. Joseph listened 
to his instructions with attentioiTi drinking them — so to say — at the 
very fountain head. When, however, Consuelo, in her cloak and fur- 
red bonnet, came to him and clasped his neck, he grew pale, stifled a 
cry, and unable to see her get into the carriage, went into Keller’s 


CONStJELO, 


492 

back shop to hide his tears. Metastasio conceived an affection for him, 
and taught him Italian perfectly, thus consoling him by good advice 
and generous services for Porpora’s absence. Joseph, however, was 
long sad and unhappy, before he became used to Consuelo’s absence. 

Consuelo, too was sad, and was sorry to lose so kind and estimable 
a friend. She felt, nevertheless, her courage revive, and became again 
awake to all the poetry of her impressions, as she went among the 
mountains of Moravia. A new sun arose to her. Separated from 
every tie and every influence opposed to art, she seemed to belong 
entirely to it. 

Porpora, restored to hope and to the enjoyment of youth, frequently 
gave vent to the most noble declamations; and the true-hearted girl, 
though she continued to love Albert and Joseph as two brothers she 
would meet in heaven, felt happy as a sky lark, whose notes grow 
more brilliant as it approaches heaven. 


CHAPTEK XCVIII. 

At the second relay, Consuelo recognised in the servant who ac- 
companied her, and who sat on the seat of the coach, paid the 
guides and reproved the postilions when they went too slowly, the 
same heyduc who had announced Count Hoditz, on the day he came 
to propose the pleasure party to Roswald. He was a tall, stalwart fel- 
low, who seemed ever and anon to look at her, and seemed divided 
between a desire and fear to speak to her. One morning when she 
breakfasted in an isolated inn at the foot of a mountain — Porpora 
having gone out to walk in search of some musical idea — she turned 
to the valet, and looked at him for a moment in a stern and irritated 
manner. He then, however, looked so pitifully at her, that she could 
not refrain from laughing. The April sun shone on the snow which 
yet crowned the mountains, and Consuelo was in an excellent humor. 

“ Alas!” said the mysterious heyduc; “ your ladyship at. last recog- 
nises me. I have never forgotten you, even if you had been disguised 
as a Turk, or a Prussian corporal. Yet I never saw you but for a mo- 
ment. What a moment, though, that was! ” 

As he spoke, he placed on the table the plate he brought, and mak- 
ing the sign of the cross, knelt. 

” Ah ! ” said Consuelo, “ Karl, the deserter? ” 

“ Yes, signora,” said the heyduc, kissing her hand; “so they tell 
me I must call you ; though for my part I am not sure whether you 
are a gentleman or a lady.” 

“ Indeed? and why do you doubt? ” 

“ I have seen you dressed as a boy, and though I knew you, there 
tv'as as much likeness to you in woman’s dress as when I first saw 
you. All this, however, means nothing. Be what you please, you 
have done me services which I shall never forget; and were you to 
order me to thiow myself from the summit of the peak above us, I 
would not refuse to obey.” 

“ I ask nothing from you, my good Karl, except to be happy and 
enjoy your liberty. Now you are free, and I think you enjoy life.” 

“Free! yes;” said Karl, shaking his head, “but happy — alas! I 
Iiave lost my wife.” 


C0N8UEL0. 493 

Consiielo’s eyes were filled with tears, for she sympathized with 
Karl, as she saw his cheeks completely distorted by sorrow. 

“ Ah ! ” said he, slaking his moustache, over which the tears drop- 
ped like dew from a bush; “ she had suffered too much. Her dis- 
tress when she saw me a second time carried away by the Prussians 
— a long journey when she was in bad health, and her joy at seeing 
me again— all caused such a transition, that she died eight days after 
I came to Vienna, and where, thanks to a billet from you, she found 
me again. Count Hoditz was of no use, however, for she was now ut- 
terly exhausted, and found repose only in the bosom of her God.” 

“And your daughter?” said Consuelo, who sought to make him 
happy. 

“ My daughter,” said he, half amazed, “ the King of Prussia killed 
her too.” 

“How? what?” 

“ Did not King Frederick kill the mother by producing all this sor- 
row? Well, the child followed the mother. Since that time, having 
seen me wounded and carried away by the recruiting sergeants, both 
lay asleep, and almost dead in the road, the young one yet troubled 
with fever, and fatigue aud weariness famished them. When you met 
them on the bridge at the suburbs of I know' not what Austrian city, 
she had eaten nothing for two days. You gave them money, and toid 
them that I had been saved. You did all you could to console and 
care for them. They told me all about it. From the time we met 
until they w’ere buried, they grew every day worse. Scarcely had my 
wife died when 1 had to open her grave to bury my daughter. Now, 
thanks to the King of Prussia, Karl is alone in the w'orld.” 

“ No, Karl, you are not alone; you have many friends who yet have 
an interest in you and your misfortunes.” 

“ Yes, I know all that. There are many kind persons, like yourself. 
But of what use are they to me, now that my wife and child are 
gone? I have now neither home nor country, my mountain being 
too well know'n to the brigands, who have come twice to look for me. 
As soon as I w’as alone, I asked if we were at war, or if we W'ould be 
soon; for I had but one idea, that of serving against Prussia, and of 
killing as many Prussians as I could. Ah, Saint Winceslas, the patron 
saint of Bohemia, would have guided my arm ; and I am sure no shot 
I fired would have been lost. I heard, though, that there would be a 
long peace; and then I had no care for anything. I went to thank 
Count Hoditz for his kindness, and asked him to present me to the 
empress, as he had intended. I wished to kill myself; he, however, 
was kind to me, and the Princess of Culmbach, his daughter-in-law, 
to whom he had told all my story, spoke kindly to me about my 
duties as a Christian, and I consented to live and enter their service, 
where, to tell the truth, I am too well fed and nourished for what I 
have done.” 

“ Now, tell me, Karl, how you came to know me? ” 

“ Did you not sing one night at the house of my new mistress, the 
margravine? I saw you pass, all dressed in white, and knew you at 
once in spite of your female dress. You see I do not know or remem- 
ber many of the places through which I have gone, nor the persons I 
have met, but I never forget faces. I began to make the sign of the 
cross when I saw a young man with you, Joseph Haydn. So far 
from being your master, as he seemed to be at the time of ray deliv- 
erance (for then he was better dressed than you,) he had become 


CONSUELO, 


494 

your servant, and remained in the antecliamber. He did not know 
me; and though the count liad forbidden me to say one M'ord about 
what had happened, (I never asked why,) I did not say a word to Jo- 
seph, though I felt as if I could have hugged him. He went almost 
immediately into the other room. I had orders not to leave the one 
in which I was, and. a good servant knows nothing but liis orders. 
When every one, though, had gone, the valet de chambre of monseig- 
neur, who is in his confidence, said: ‘ Karl, you did uot speak to that 
servajit of Porpoi’a, though you recognised him. The count will be 
glad of it. As for the young lady who sang to-night’ — Ah! I knew 
her too. and said nothing. — ‘ Well,’ said he, ‘ you were right there, too. 
The count wishes no one to know anything about his trip to Passau.’ 
That is nothing to me,’ said I ; ‘ but may I ask how it was that she 
rescued me from the Prussians? Henri told me how all passed, (for 
he was there,) and how, when you had no reason to be alarmed for 
yourself, you insisted on his coming to my aid. You said something 
to my poor wife, and she told me all about it. For when she died, 
she prayed that God might have mercy on you. When I saw Joseph 
in your service, having been charged to take him money from mon- 
seigneur, at the house of whom he had played a few days before on 
the violin, I put in the paper several ducats, the first I had gained in 
my present service. He did not know it, and did not know me. If 
we ever return to Vienna, I will contrive that he shall never be in 
trouble as long as I have money.” 

“ Joseph is no longer in my service, Karl. He is no longer in difld- 
culty. He is a musician, and can easily support himself. Do not rob 
yourself to aid him.” 

“ As for yourself, signora, I can do little for you, who are, they tell 
me, a great actress; but should you ever need a good servant, with- 
out being able to pay for one. send for Karl. He will serve you for 
nothing, and will be glad to work for you.” 

“ Such gratitude ampfy rewards me, Karl. I ask nothing from your 
good heart.” 

“ Here comes Maestro Porpora. Remember, signora, I only know 
you as a servant sent by my master to attend on you.” 

The next day the two travellers, who had risen early, reached the 
castle of Roswald. It was in a lofty region, and the highest portion 
of Moravia, and was so well slieltered from the winds that the spring 
had already begun to exert its influence. Though the weather was 
unusually mild, the roads were not good. To Count Hoditz, however, 
nothing was impossible, and he was already on the spot with a hun- 
dred i)ioneers, w ho were at w'ork on the road over which, on the next 
day, the majestic equipage of his noble spouse w'as to roll. It would, 
perhaps, have been more conjugal for him to travel w’ith her; but he 
was not so anxious to keep her from breaking her neck as to give her 
a great reception. Dead or alive, she must be nobly received on her 
arrival at Roswald. 

The count scarcely permitted the travellers to change their toilet, 
when he had an excellent iJinner served to them in a rocky and mossy 
cavern, w'hich a stove, screened by thin stones, heated most agreeably. 
The view from the door of the cavern was most magnificent, and at 
the first glance delighted Consuelo. Nature had done everything for 
Roswald. Stern landscapes, green trees, bounding streams, admirable 
prospects, and verdant plains, all seemed to unite to make it a pleas- 
ant home. Consuelo, however, soon saw traces of the count’s 


C O N S U E L O. 


495 


attempts to destroy the sublimity of this nature. The grotto would 
have been charming, hut for a glass door which converted it into a 
very uncomfortable dining-room ; and as the trefoil and clover were 
only beginning to spring up, the windows had been decked with arti- 
ficial flowers. Shells and stalactites were seen to be fastened to the 
walls by plaster, and the heat of the stove caused the dampness of 
the gi-otto to fall on the heads of the inmates in a heavy dew which 
the count would not notice. Porpora got out of humor, and twice or 
thrice put his hand on his liat, without daring to put it on his head 
as he wished. He was afraid that Consuelo would take a cold, and ate 
rapidly, pretending to be very anxious to see the music he was to play 
on the next day. 

While this was being urged by Porpora, a servant entered, and told 
Count Hoditz that two foreign officers returning home asked permis- 
sion to pay their compliments to him, and to see the grounds and 
palace of Koswald. 

I'lie count was used to visits of this kind, and especially delighted 
in playing the cicerone himself. He, therefore, welcomed them by 
message, and ordered covers to be placed for them. 

A few moments after the officers weie introduced. They wore the 
Prussian uniform. The one who walked first, behind whom his com- 
panion seemed to be completely hidden, was small and common look- 
ing. His nose was long, coarse and expressive of no nobility, and made 
more conspicuous the total absence of a chin. His shoulders, which 
were very crooked, gave an oldish air to his form, which was wrapped 
in the ungraceful coat Frederick had invented. This man was about 
forty years of age, and his step was fii m and distinct. As soon as he 
had taken off the villainous cap which came down to the bridge of 
his nose it became apparent that there was something good about his 
head, which was firm, intelligent and thoughtful. His brow was 
quick to move, and his eyes very expressive. His glance changed the 
whole man, as the sun’s rays beautify and embellish the saddest and 
most poetical localities. He seemed to grow a head taller whenever 
his eyes began to shine. 

“ Count Hoditz received them with a hospitality which was rather 
cordial than ceremonious, and without losing time, had their plates 
filled with the choicest delicacies, and exhibited a truly patriarchal 
kindness. Hoditz was a very kind man, and vanity, far from corrupt- 
ing his heart made him more generous. The people of his domains 
were yet serfs, and all the splendors of Roswald had been constructed 
at little expense by the people liable to labor. He bound flowers 
around the yokes his peasants bore. He made them forget what was 
necessary, by exhibiting all the superfluities of life, and being satis- 
fied that happiness and pleasure are identical, amused them so that 
they did not dream of freedom. 

The Prussian ( there was but one, the other seeming to be a mere 
shadow,) seemed somewhat surprised, and perhaps rather shocked at 
the count’s frankness. He affected to be somewhat reserved w'heu 
Hoditz said — “ Captain, I beg you will make yourself at home. I 
know you are used to the sternness of Frederick's armies, which, in 
its place, I think is very admirable. Here, however, you are in the 
country, where, if we do not amuse ourselves, what can we do? I 
see that you are persons well-educated and well-bred, and never 
become Prussian officers without having shown botii military knowl- 
edge and bravery. 1 look on you, then, as persons, the presence of 


496 


C O N S U E L O. 


whom honors my house. Use it, then, as your own, and remain her* 
as long as you please.” 

The officer at once acted like a man of sense, and after having 
thanked his host, began to pour out the champagne, which, however, 
did not excite him in the least. He also dug into an excellent 
about which he made certain gastronomical remarks and observa- 
tions, which did not give the temperate Consuelo a very high idea of 
him. She was struck, though, with the fire of his eye, which aston- 
ished without charming her. She saw in it something haughty, sus- 
picious, and distrustful. 

While he was at the table, the officer told the count that he w'as the 
Baron von Kreutz, a native of Siberia, and had been sent to remount 
the cavalry at Neisse. He had not been able to resist the desire to see 
the palace and gardens of Roswald, and consequently had crossed the 
frontier with his lieutenant, and had taken occasion to purchase sev- 
eral horses on the way. He proposed to visit the stables of the count 
if he had any animals to sell. He traveled on horseback, and w'ould 
return on that very night. 

“ I will not consent to that,” said Hoditz. “ .Just now' I have no 
horses for sale, not having enough for the new embellishments I pro- 
pose to make. I wish, though, to enjoy your society for as long a 
time as possible.” 

“ They told us when w'e came hither that you expected every day 
the countess. We are unwilling to annoy you, and will go as soon as 
possible.” 

“ I expect the margravine to-morrow',” said the count. “ She will 
come w'ith her daughter, the Princess of Culmbach. You are not igno- 
rant, gentlemen, that I have been fortunate enough to make an illus- 
trious alliance.” 

“ With the Dowager Margravine of Bareith,” said Baron von 
Kreutz, who did not seem as much overpow'ered by her dignity as the 
count expected. 

“ She is the aunt of the King of Prussia,” said he, with emphasis. 

“ Yes, I know she is,” said the Prussian, taking a large pinch of 
snuff. 

“As she is a very graceful and affable lady,” said the count; “I 
doubt not but that she will be glad to see officers of her illustrious 
nephew.” 

“We will be very grateful for such an honor,” said the baron, with 
a smile; “ but we will not be affie to enjoy it. Our duties require our 
return at once, and w'e will take leave of your excellency this very 
night. In the interim we will be glad to look at your beautiful resi- 
dence. Our master has none that can compare with it.” 

This compliment made the Moravian noble very gracious to the 
Prussian. They left the table. Porpora, who cared less about the 
palace than his rehearsal, did not wish to walk with them. 

“ No,” said the count, “ we will have both together, “you shall see, 
maestro.” 

He gave his arm to Consuelo, and passing first, said, “ Excuse me, 
gentlemen, if I take possession of the only lady. It is my right as 
host. Be kind enough to follow me.” 

“ May I venture,” said the Baron von Kreutz to Porpora, “ to ask 
the name of that very amiable lady.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Porpora, who was in a bad humor, “ I am an 
Italian ; I speak German very badly, and French worse yet.” 


CONSUELO. 497 

The baron who, like other people of his rank, hitherto had been 
speaking French, repeated his question in Italian. 

“ That amiable lady, who has not spoken one word in your presence 
is neither margravine, dowager, princess, nor baroness. She is an 
Italian singer of some talent.” 

“ I am anxious to know her name,” said the baron, smiling at Por- 
pora’s rudeness.” 

“ She is my pupil, la Porporina,” said Porpora. 

“ She is a very skilful artist,” said the baron, “and is anxiously 
waited for at Berlin. As she is your pupil, I have the honor of speak- 
ing to the illustrious Porpora.” 

“ At your service,” said Porpora, quickly replacing his hat which 
he had removed at the Baron von Kreutz’s low bow. The latter see- 
ing how little he was disposed to be communicative, let him go ahead, 
and rejoined his lieutenant. Porpora, who had eyes in the back of 
his head, saw that they laughed and talked about him in their own 
language. He was in an especial bad humor, and did not open his lips 
during the rest of the promenade. 


CHAPTER XCIX. 

The count took Consuelo down a declivity at the foot of which was 
a miniature river, which once had been a merry purling stream ; as if 
it was necessary to make it navigable, it had been deepened, and on 
it floated a gondola ship perfectly rigged, and exactly like those of Ven- 
ice. On it they embarked, singing a stanza of Tasso; after wander- 
ing about for half an hour, the river ran into a basin, intended to rep- 
resent the sea, where was also a magnificent miniature ship, rigged 
perfectly, with all the paraphernalia. After having embarked in this, 
the count made Consuelo personate the margravine, and put all hands 
through a rehearsal of entertainments, with which on the next day he 
proposed to amuse the illustrious margravine. Miniature China, Pel- 
oponnesus and other lands had all been prepared, and to them they 
were made to sail amid all the discomfort of a cold wind, after which ^ 
they were forced to walk over half the estate. The whole of the ar- 
rangements were fantastically ridiculous in the extreme. 

Proof against fatigue, the two Prussian officers, though they laughed 
at the puerile amusements of the surprises of Roswald, were not so 
much astonished as Consuelo was at the ridicule of this wonderful 
residence. She was a child of nature, born in the open fields, and 
used, from the time she first opened her eyes, to look at God without 
any gauze-curtain or lorgnette. The Baron von Kreutz, though not 
exactly a new-comer into this aristocratic circle, used to fashionable 
drapery and frippery, was a man of the world, according to the fash- 
ion of his time. He had no hatred of grottoes, hermitages and sym- 
bols. In fact, he amused himself good-naturedly, and said to his 
Acolyte, who, as they entered the dining-room, compassionated him 
for having been so annoyed : 

“ Annoyed ! not at all. I have had exercise, and have gained an 
appetite. I have witnessed a thousand follies, and my mind has 
rested from serious thoughts. I have not lost my time and trouble.” 

31 


C () N S U E L O. 


498 

In the dining-room all were surprised to find only a circle of chain 
around an empty place. The count having asked his guests to sit 
down, bade his valets to serve up dinner. 

“ Alas, monseigneur,” said one, the duty of whom it was to reply, 
“ we had nothing fit for such distinguished company^ and wo have 
not even set the table.” 

“ That is a pretty business! ” said Amphitryon, pretending to be in 
a rage. After the lapse of a few moments he said— “ Well, since man 
refuses us supper, I call on the lower regions, and order Pluto to send 
me one worthy of my guests.” As he spoke, he struck on the floor 
three times, and the floor at once opening, perfumed flames arose. 
Then there was heard the sound of music, and a magnificently served 
table rose up before the guests. 

“ That is not well,” said the count, lifting up the cloth, and speak- 
ing beneath the table. ‘‘ I am much surprised, though, that Pluto is 
so well aware that there is no water in my house. He has not sent 
me a drop.” 

“ Count Hoditz,” said a hoarse voice, worthy of Tartarus, “in our 
world water is scarce, the rivers having dried up, the light of the 
margravine’s voice having reached the very bowels of the earth. Yet 
if you insist on it, M e will send one of the Daniades to see if any can 
be found in the Styx.” 

“ Let-her be quick, and go with a bucket without a hole in the 
bottom.” 

Just then there sprang from a jasper vase, in the middle of the. 
table, a jet of rock-water, wiiich fell back on itself during the whole 
meal, in a shower of diamonds, which glittered in the light of count- 
less lamps. The whole feast was a perfect. display of wealth and bad 
taste; and the w'ater of the Styx, the infernal cookery, afforded the 
count material for a thousand jests and witticisms, wiiich, in spite of 
their childishness, were listened to. The repast was served by sylvans 
and nymphs, more or less beautiful, and enlightened the 'baron not a 
little. lie paid but mediocre attention to the beautiful slaves of Ho- 
ditz. These poor peasant women were at once servants, mistresses, 
and actresses to their seignor. He was their professor of the graces, 
of dancing, and of declamations. At Passau, Consuelo had seen how 
he proceeded with them, and she wondered at the proud offer he had 
made her, and the respectful sang froid with which he now treated 
her, without seeming either confused or surprised. She knew on the 
next day, when the margravine came, things wmuld change, that she 
would dine in her own room, with the maestro, and not have the 
honor of being admitted to the table of her highness; this did not 
annoy her, though just then she was ignorant of a circumstance which 
would for the moment have amused her greatly; the fact was, she 
was now supping with an i.lkistrious pei'son, who would on no account 
sup on the next day with the margravine. 

The baron, smiling coldly at the appearance of the nymphs, paid 
more attention to Porporina, when, having induced her to break the 
silence, he began to talk of music. He was an enlightened and al- 
most passionate admirer of the divine art, of which lie spoke in such 
a manner as to do what good cheer could not — soothe Porpora’s ill- 
humor. 

“ I hope,” said he to the baron, wiio had delicately praised his man- 
ner without mentioning his name, “ that the sovereign of the court 
to which we go is as good a judge as you are.” 


CONSUELO. 499 

“ They say my sovereign is well informed on this matter, and that 
he really loves the fine arts.” 

“ Are yoif sure of it, baron ? ” said the maestro, who could not talk 
without contradicting some one. “ I hardly flatter myself with the 
hope. Kings are, according to their subjects, always masters of every 
art; but it generally happens that the latter are much better edu- 
cated.” 

“ In war, as in science and engineering, the King of Prussia knows 
more than any of us,” said the lieutenant, zealously. “ As for music, 
it is certain ” 

“ That you and I know nothing about it,” said Captain Von Kreutz. 
“ Signor Porpora can arrogate to himself the decision of that ques- 
tion.” 

“ Royal dignity,” said Porpora, “ has no influence on me in musical 
matters. When I had the honor to instruct the Electoral Princess 
of Saxony, 1 corrected her false notes as I would those of any one 
else.” 

“ What! ” said the Baron, looking ironically at his lieutenant, “ do 
kings ever utter false notes?” 

“ Like other people. I must say, however, that the princess, when 
under my tuition, rarely did so, for she had a fine intelligence to aid 
her.” 

“ Then you will excuse some false notes in our Fritz, if he were im- 
pertinent enough to make any?” 

“ Provided he would correct them.” 

“ But you would not find fault loudly with him ? ” said Count Ho- 
ditz, laughing. 

“ Yes, I would, even if he cut my head off for it,” said the maestro, 
the confidence of whom, under the influence of the champagne, had 
become rather expansive. 

Constielo had been duly informed by the old canon that Prussia was 
a great prefecture of police, and that the most trivial words uttered on 
the frontier, in the lowest tone, by means of a system of mysterious 
and accurate echoes, in a very short time reached Frederick’s cabinet; 
and that it would never do to say to any Prussian soldier or officer, 
“ How are you ? ” without weighing every word, and, as little children 
say, turning the tongue over seven times in the mouth. She was 
sorry, then, to see the maestro embark in this mocking humor, and 
sought to repair his impudence by a little flattery. 

“ Even if the King of Prussia be not first musician of the age, one 
who is familiar with so many arts may be permitted to disdain One of 
no practical use.” 

She was ignorant that Frederick was as proud of being a great 
flutist as of being a great captain and philosopher. 

“ If the king esteemed music or art worthy of study,” said the baron, 
“ he probably had devoted a considerable portion of his time to it.” 

“ Bah ! ” said Porpora, who was becoming more and more excited, 
“ time and study in matters of art are useless to those to whom God 
has not given the innate faculty. Music is uot in the power of all; 
and’ it is easier to win battles and pension men of letters, than wrest 
the sacred fire from the Muses. The Baron Frederick Von Trenck 
told me, that when his Prussian Majesty played out of tune, the fault 
was always laid on the courtiers. That will not do with me, though.” 

“ Did Von Trenck say that?” repeated the baron, whose eyes were 
lighted up with surprise and anger. “ Well,” said he, calming himself 


500 


C O N S U E L O. 


by a violent effort, “ the poor devil must now have lost all taste for 
jokes, being now in the citadel of Glatz for life.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Porpora. “ What is his offence? ” 

“ That is a state secret. But everything tends to show that he has 
betrayed the confidence of his master.” 

“ Yes,” said the lieutenant, “he has sold the plans of the Prussian 
fortifications to the Austrians.” 

“ That is impossible,” said Consuelo, growing pale, and who, though 
she thought to restrain her expressions, could not repress that ex- 
clamation. 

“ It is impossible, and it is false. Those who persuaded the king of 
that lied,” 

“ I presume you do not mean to contradict us indirectly? ” said the 
lieutenant, growing pale. 

“ One must be most awkwardly susceptible to think so,” said Von 
Krentz, looking imperiously at his companion. “ What, however, can 
all that be to you? and how is the maestro, Porpora, so warm in his 
friendship for that young<man?” 

“ I would be as warm,” said Porpora, “ in the presence of the king 
himself. He is mistaken and it is wrong in him to be mistaken. 
Von Trenck is a noble young man, and incapable of a piece of villany 
like that.” 

“ I think, maestro,” said Consuelo, whom the expression of the ba- 
ron’s face made more and more uneasy, “ when you have the honor 
of approaching- Frederick the Great, you will speak to him of nothing 
but music.” 

“ The young lady seems vei^^ prudent. She was very intimate with 
Von Trenck, though, at Vienna.” 

“’I, sir!” said Consuelo,* with very perfectly acted indifference; “I 
scarcely know him.” 

“ But,”' said the baron, with a piercing eye, “ were the king to ask 
your opinion of Trenck’s treason ? ” 

“Baron,” said Consuelo, meeting his glance with modest calmness, 
“ I would tell him I have no faith in treason by any one, being inca- 
pable of it myself.” 

“ That is a noble sentiment,” said the baron : and his brow at once 
brightened. “You, signora, have uttered it as if you believed it.” 

He spoke of other matters, and charmed all by his wit and grace. 
During the rest of the supper, he spoke to Consuelo with an expres- 
sion of good will and confidence, which she had not seen him wear 
before. 


CHAPTER C. 

After the dessert, a drooped figure came among the guests, saying, 
“Follow me!” Consuelo, who was again doomed to play the mar- 
gravine, in the rehearsal of a new scene, rose first, and, accompanied 
by the other guests, went up the great staircase of the chateau, which 
led from a door at the bottom of the hall. The figure yet preceding 
them, pushed open another door at the lop of the stairway, where 
they found themselves in a vast antique gallery, at the extiemity of 
which there was a feeble light. From that part of the room came 


CONSUELO. 601 

slow, solGmn, and mysterious music, which was imagined to come 
from the other world. 

“ Ver Bacco I ” said Porpora, enthusiastically, “ the count refuses 
us nothing. We have heard to-day Turkish, Chinese, nautical and 
Lilliputian music: this, however, surpasses all, and seems really to 
come from below.” 

“ And you have not yet come to the end,” said the count, en- 
chanted at this enlogium. 

“ One must be prepared for everything, from your excellency,” said 
Von Kreutz, with the same irony which the professor had used; 
“ after what we have seen already, nothing can surprise us.” 

At the extremity of the gallery, the shadow struck on a kind of 
gong, and a vast curtain being withdrawn, the theatre was seen illu- 
minated, as it would be on the morrow. I will not seek to describe it, 
though it would be very appropriate — 

Ce n^elait que festionSy ce n’eclait qu’ astragales. 

The curtain was lifted up. The scene represented Olympus — 
neither more nor less. The goddesses were disputing for the heart 
of the shepherd Paris — and the meeting of the three principal divin- 
ities, made the chief portion of the piece. It wa,s Written in Italian, 
and made Porpora say, as he spoke to Consuelo — “ The slave, and the 
Chinese were nothing; now we have the Iroquois.” Verses and 
music were all written by the Count. The actors and actresses were 
worthy of their parts. After half an hour of metaphors and conceiiij, 
in relation to the absence of the most charming and powerful divin- 
ity, who disdained to dispute the prize of beauty — Paris, having re- 
solved to ensure the triumph of Venus, the latter took the apple, and 
coming into the stage, placed it at the feet of Consuelo. This will 
give an idea of the character of the piece, which, however, the Count 
looked on as a chef d'oeuvre, and insisted that Consuelo should per- 
sonate Venus, and should read with Porpora during the evening, and 
the next morning. It was not long nor difficult to learn, and they 
were sure at the time of the performance of being quite up with the 
rest of the troop. The party then visited the ball room, which was 
not yet ready, because the dances were not to take place until the day 
after to-morrow, and offer an uninterrupted series of amusements. 

It was ten o’clock at night. The weather was fair and the moon 
magnificent. The two Prussian officers insisted on crossing the bar- 
rier that very night, saying “ that they were ordered never to sleep 
beyond the frontier.’’ The Count then was forced to yield; and hav- 
ing ordered their horses to be prepared, took them to drink the stir- 
rup-cup — that is to say, to taste coffee and sundry choice liquors — in 
a boudoir, whither Consuelo did not think proper to accompany 
them. She then bade them adieu, and after enjoining on Porpora to 
be more on his guard than he had been during supper, went to her 
room, which was in another wing of the chateau. 

She soon, however, became lost in the detours of this labyrinth, and 
soon got into a kind of cloister, where her lamp was near going out. 
— Fearing to go yet farther wrong, or perhaps injure herself in some 
of the surprises, with which the house was filled, she resolved to feel 
her way back until she came to that part of the house which was well 
lighted. Amid the confusion of preparations for all the follies which 
were meditated, comfort had been entirely neglected. Savages, shad- 
ows, gods, hermits, nymphs, games, sports, were in abundance; but 
there was not a servan t to hold a light, or a single person with good 
sense enough to answer a question. 


502 


CONSUELO, 


Just then she heard the steps of a person, who seemed to walk 
carefully, and glide along the walls. She had not confidence enough 
to call to him, especially as from the step, and distinct breathing, she 
knew it must be a man. She advanced, with not a little excitement, 
holding on to the wall, when she saw a door open not far from her, 
and the light of the moon penetrating through the wall, fell on the 
tall and manly form of Karl. She hastened to speak to him. 

“Is it you, signora? ” said he, in an excited voice. “For along 
time I have sought for an opportunity to speak to you, and now per- 
haps I am too late.” 

“ What have you to say, Karl, and whence comes your emotion ? ” 

“ Leave this corridor, signora; I must speak lio you in a place more 
completely isolated, and where, I hope, no one can hear us.” 

Consuelo went with Karl toatferrace, which was on one side of the 
flanks of the chateau. 

“Signora,” said the deserter, speaking with precaution, (having 
come that morning to Roswald for the first time, he knew nothing 
more of the things and people around him, than Consuelo) ; “ have 
you said nothing to-day likely to expose you to the dissatisfaction or 
distrust of the King of Prussia, for which you might be sorry some 
day at Berlin, if the king should hear of it? ” 

“ Nothing, Karl. 1 knew that any Prussian, with whom one is not 
acquainted, is a dangerous person to talk with — I, therefore, watched 
every word.” 

“ And you were right. I drew near you two or three times, when 
we were in that log vessel. I was one of the pirates, who you will re- 
member pretended to be about to board, but you did not know me. 
It was in vain that I looked at and made signs to you, but I could not 
speak. That officer was always at j'our side; and all the time you 
were on the lake, he did not leave you. One might have fancied he 
took you for a breastplate, and stood behind you, for fear some chance 
shot should strike him.” 

“What do you mean, Karl? I do not understand you. Who is 
that officer ? I do not know him.” 

“ I need not tell you. You will find out as soon as you go to Ber- 
lin.” 

“ Why make a secret of it now?” 

“ Because it is a terrible secret, which I must keep for one hour 
more.” 

“ y ou are very much agitated, Karl. What is it that troubles you ? ” 

“ Much. Hell is in my heart ! ” 

“ Hell ! one might fancy you meditated something wrong.” 

“ Perhaps I do.” 

“ Then you must tell me. You have no right to conceal it from me, 
Karl; for you promised perfect submission and devotion.” 

“ What, -signora ? True; I owe you more than life, for you did all 
you could to preserve my wife and daughter. They were doomed, 
however, and died. They must be avenged.” 

“ Karl, in the name of your wife and child, who now pray for you 
in heaven, I order you to speak. You meditate, I know not what act 
of folly; you wish to avenge them. The sight of that Prussian ren- 
ders you mad.” 

“ It makes me furious. Now, however, I am calm as a saint. You 
see, signora, the hand of God, not of the devil, is on me. Farewell— 
the time is nearly come. It may be, that I will not see you again, and 


C O N S U E L o. 603 

I beg you to pay for a mass for me, at the shrine of St. John Nepo- 
muck, one of the patrons of Bohemia.” 

“Karl, you will tell me — you will confess to me — the ideas which 
torment you, and I will pray for you. If not, I will invoke the curses 
of your wife and daughter, who are God’s angels, and rest in the 
bosom of His merciful son. How can you be pardoned in heaven, if 
you do not pardon on earth ? I see that you have a carbine under 
your cloak, and are watching for the Prussians?” 

“ No, signora, — not here. 1 would not shed blood in my master’s 
house, nor before you, pure and good as you are — but amid the moun- 
tain there is a dark pass which 1 know, having been there when they 
rode by. 1 was there, however, by chance, and without arms. I did 
not know him at first. He will return there, and I will meet him, 
well mounted as he is. You are right, signora, I have a carbine — an 
excellent one with a ball in it for his heart. It has long been there — 
for when I played the pirate I was in earnest. The opportunity was 
good, and I took aim at him half-a-dozen times. You were there, how 
ever, and I did not fire. Soon you will be away, and then he cannot 
hide behiml you, like a coward, as I know he is. I saw him grow pale 
and turn his back, one day when he was forcing ns to march against 
the Bohemians, our countrymen. Horrid ! for I am a Bohemian in 
heart and in blood — that blood is unforgiving. If, however, I am a 
poor peasant, who learned in the forest to handle the wedge, he made 
a soldier of me, and, thanks to his corporal, I can fire my gun with as 
much accuracy as any one.” 

“ Karl, be silent — you are mad. You do not know that man, I am 
sure. He is the Baron von Kreutz. You do not know him. He is 
no recruiter, and never injured you.” 

“ Signora, he is not the Baron von Kreutz; no. Signora, I know 
him well. I have seen him on parade a hundred times. He is a 
great recruiter, and the chief of the men-stealers and destroyers of 
families. He is the scourge of Bohemia, and my enemy. He is the 
enemy of our church, religion, and saints, and profaned by impious 
ridicule the statue of St. John Nepornuck on the bridge of Prague. 
He stole from the castle of Prague the drum covered with Ziska’s 
skin ; and as Ziska was a great warrior, all Bohemia honored that 
drum. No, I am not mistaken, and I know him. Besides, Saint 
Wenceslaw appeared to me just now as I prayed in the chapel. I saw 
him distinctly as I see you, and said to me; ‘It is he— -dig out his 
heart.’ I swore to the Virgin, over my wife’s tomb, to do so, and I 
will keep my oath. Oh I signora, look ; there is his horse at the door; 
that is what I needed. I will to rny post. Pray for me; for I must, 
sooner or later, atone for this with my life. That Is of little matter if 
God save my soul ! ” 

“ Karl,” said Consuelo, with unusual force, “ I thought you were 
generous, sensible, and pious ; yet I find that you are a coward, a re- 
viler, and a wretch. Whoever the man you wish to murder may be, I 
forbid you to follow or injure him. The devil has assumed the form 
of a saint to betray you. You are base and ungrateful, I say; for yon 
do not remember that Count Hoditz, who has been kind to you, and 
lias heaped benefits on your head, will be accused of your crime, and 
will pay for it with his head. Go, seclude yourself in some cave, Karl, 
and do penance for the very thought. Look there— your wife weeps 
beside you, and seeks to keep back your good angel who is about to 
leave you.” 


604 


CONSUELO, 


“ My wife ! my wife ! ” said Karl completely amazed : “ I do not see 
her. Speak to me if you are here. Let me see you once again before 
I die.” 

“You cannot see her: your heart is wicked. Kneel, Karl, kneel! 
Give me that gun, and pray.” 

Consnelo took the carbine, which Karl did not seek to retain, and 
hastened to put it out of his sight, while he knelt and wept. She 
left the terrace to place it somewhere else, being completely exhausted 
by the effort she had made to acquire an influence over the fanatic 
by evoking chimeras. Time pressed, and this was no occasion to 
read a moral lecture. Slie said exactly what suggested itself, being, 
perhaps, under the influence of an inspiration which made her sym- 
pathise with the poor man, whom she wished at all events to save 
from an act of madness, and whom she seemed to censure severely, 
though she pitied the delirium he could not control. 

She hurried to hide the weapon, intending to rejoin and detain him 
until the Prussians had gone. Just then opening the little door 
which led from the terrace to the corridor, she saw Baron von Kreutz 
face to face with her. He had gone to his room to get his pistols and 
cloak. Consnelo had only time to hide the carbine behind the door 
and go into the corridor, closing the door between Karl and herself. 
She was afraid the sight of the enemy would revive all his fury. 

The precipitation of her motions, and her leaning against the door 
as if she were about to faint, did not escape the clear eye of Count 
von Kreutz. He had a light in his hand, and paused, with a smile, 
before her. His free was perfectly calm, yet Consnelo fancied that 
the light quivered in his hand. The lieutenant was behind him, pale 
as death, with a drawn sword in his hand. These circumstances, as 
well as the certainty she acquired at a later hour that a window of 
the room in which the baron had placed his luggage opened on the 
terrace, made Consnelo think subsequently that the two Prussians 
had heard every word of the conversation. The baron, however, 
saluted her courteously and kindly; but her alarm rendered her un- 
able to return it. Von Kreutz looked attentively at her with an ex- 
pression of more interest than surprise. He said to her kindly, tak- 
ing her the while by the hand : 

“ Calm yourself, my child; you seem much agitated. We frighten- 
ed you as we passed so rapidly before the door just as you opened it. 
We are, however, yoitr servants and your friends, perhaps we may 
meet at Berlin, where I may be useful to you.” 

The baron drew Consuelo’s hand towards him, as if half inclined 
to kiss it. He but pressed it gently, bowed again, and retired, accom- 
panied by his subaltern, who did not even seem to see Consuelo, so 
much was he troubled, and so completely beside himself. The cir- 
cumstance confirmed Consuelo in her idea that he was aware of the 
danger to -which they had been exposed. 

Who, thought she, was this man, the responsibility of whom 
weighed so heavily on the heart of another, and the destruction of 
whom seemed so completely intoxicating to Karl? Consuelo re- 
turned to the terrace to wrest this secret from him. She found he 
had fainted away; and being unable to lift him, went to call other 
servants to his assistance. 

“ This is nothing,” said they; “he has drunk too much hydromel, 
and we will put him to bed.” Consuelo wished to go with them ; for 
Bhe was afraid, when he recovered his senses, Karl would betray his 


CONSUELO, 


505 


secret. She was prevented from doing so by Count Hoditz, who took 
her arm, and said he was glad she had not gone to bed, for he had in- 
tended to regale her with a new spectacie. She had to go to the front 
door, where she saw on one of the hills of the park, precisely over 
the spot Karl had pointed out, an arch of light, on which was confus- 
edly distinguished letters in colored lamps. 

“ It is a very handsome illumination,” said she, in a tone of deep 
abstraction. 

“It is a piece of politeness — an adieu to the guest who has just left 
us. Before a quarter of an hour has sped he will pass through a 
hollow ravine we cannot see from this place, and will see this tri- 
umphal arch raised above him as if by magic.” 

“ Count,” said Consuelo, aroused from her revery, “ who is the 
person that has just left us? ” 

“ By-and-by you will know.” 

“ If I should not ask, I will say no more. I suspect that his name 
is not the Baron von Kreutz.” 

“ I was not deceived for an instant,” said Hoditz, with not a little 
pride. “I preserved his incognito, however, most religiously. I know 
people become offended when they are not treated exactly as they 
wish to be. You saw I treated him as a simple oflScer, and yet ” 

The count died almost from a desire to speak; propriety, however, 
forbade him to utter so holy a name. He took a middle way, and gave 
Consuelo his lorgnette. 

“ Look,” said he, “ how well this improvised arch has succeeded. 

It is a half mile from me, and yet with my lorgnette, which is an ex- 
cellent one, you may read what is written below. The letters are “ 
twenty feet high, though imperceptible to the naked eye.” 

Consuelo looked at, and easily deciphered the inscription. Which re- 
vealed everything to her. It was — 

“ Vivat Fredericus magnus ! ” 

“ Count,” said she, “ it is dangerous for such a personage to travel 
thus. It is yet more dangerous to entertain him.” 

“ I do not understand you. We are at peace, and no one now would 
dare to injure him, while in the estates of the empire. Besides, there 
is nothing unpatriotic in treating him hospitably.” 

Consuelo was wrapped in a revery. Hoditzjroused her from it, by 
saying that he had an humble petition to present her. He was afraid 
of abusing her politeness, but the thing was so important that he could 
not forbear. After many circumlocutions, he told her that he was 
anxious she should assume the role of the shadow.” 

“ What shadow?” said Consuelo, who thought only of Frederick, 
and what had just happened. 

“ The shadow who, after the desert, will come for the margravine 
and lead her through the Tartarian gallery — where I have placed the 
ball of the dead — to conduct her into the theatre of Olympus. Venus 
does not appear until long after you, and you will have time to lay 
aside the shroud, for the brilliant costume of the mother of the loves. 

It will be of satin, with bows of silver and of chenille, with a very 
small hoop; hair without powder; pearls and feathers, roses, <fec.,— all 
will be very elegant, but very decent. You will play the shadow. 

You must walk with great dignity; and not one of my people will 
dare say to her highness— ‘ follow me.’ It is a very difficult thing to 
say, and I have fancied a person of genius might make a great part of 
it. What think you of it ? ” 


506 


C O N S U E L O. 


“ Admirable. I will play the shadow with all my heart,” said Con* 
suelo, smiling. 

“ Ah! you are a perfect angel,” said the count, kissing her hand. 

But, alas! this fete, this brilliant fete, which the count had taken 
such care for, and which had required him to make those journeys to 
Moravia, was all to end in smoke, like the sombre and serious ven- 
geance of Karl. At noon the next day, all w'as ready. The people of 
Roswald w'ere under arms — the nymphs, genii, savages, dwarfs, giants, 
shadows, and mandarins, weie all ready to begin their evolutions. 
The mountain was swept clear of snow and covered with moss. 
Guests had collected from the neighbouring chateaux, and formed a 
respectable cortege, when lo ! and behold ! a thunderbolt overturned 
all. A courier arrived saying — ‘ that her highness had been upset, 
and W'as forced to remain at Olmutz.’ The crowd dispersed; and the 
count, accompanied by Karl, who had regained his reason, mounted 
two of the best horses and set out at once, after having spoken briefly 
to his'major-domo. 

, The Pleasures, the Rivers, Hours, and the Streamlets, put on their 
heavy boots and woollen caps, and returned to work, pell-mell, with 
Chinese pirates and Anthropophagi. The guests got into their car- 
riages, and the berlin, in which Porpora had come, w'as again har- 
nessed up. The major-domo, in obedience to his orders, gave liim 
the money w'hich he had been promised, and forced him to take it, 
though it had scarcely been earned. They set out that very day for 
Prague, the professor, delighted at having gotten l id of the count’s 
music and the many-tongued cantatas of his host; Consuelo, looking 
' with regret on Silesia, and distressed at being unable to extend any 
aid to the unfortunate prisoner of Glatz. 

On the same day, the Baron von Kreutz who had passed the night 
in a village not far from the Moravian frontier, and who had set out. 
in the morning in a great travelling carriage, escorted by mounted 
pages and a berlin, which contained his clerk and travelling treasury, 
said to his lieutenant or ratlier his aide-de-camp, the Baron von Bud- 
denbrock, as they were about to enter the city of Neisse, (w'e must 
remark that, offended at his awkw'ardness on the previous evening, 
he had not spoken to him before.) — “ What illumination w'as that I 
saw over a hill we passed last night? ” 

“ Sire,” said the aide, “ 1 saw nothing.” 

“ One w'ho travels with me, should see everything.” 

“Your majesty must excuse me, on account of the trouble in 
W’hich the revelation of that rascal plunged me.” 

“ You do not know w’hat you are talking about. That man is an 
unfortunate Catholic devotee, exasperated by the sermons the Bohe- 
mian curates preached about me during the war. He was also aggra- 
vated by some personal wrong. He niust have been some peasant 
borne off by my troops, or some of those de.serters every now and 
then overtaken, in spite of all their precautions.” 

“ Your majesty may be certain that to-morrow he will be arrested 
and again in your power.” 

“ You have then ordered him to be taken from Count Hoditz? ” 

“ No, sire; but so soon as I come to Neisse, 1 wili send four resolute 
and shrewd men ” 

“ I forbid you to do so. On the contrary, ascertain all about him. 
If his family has been victimized by w'ar as his w'ords seemed to indi- 
cate, see ‘hat there be paid him one thousand rix dollars, and instruct 


CONSUELO. 


607 

the recruiting officers iu Silesia, to let him alone. Do you understand 
me ? His name is Karl ; he is a Bohemian, and in the service of Count . 
Hoditz. That is enough to enable you to recognise him easily, and to 
ascertain his family, name, and circumstances.” 

“ Your majesty shall be obeyed.” 

“ I hope so. What did you think of Porpora ? ” 

• “ He seemed to me a fool : very vain and very self-sufficient. He is 
ill-tempered, too.” * 

“ I think in his art he is a very superior man ; full of intellect, and 
most amusingly ironical. When he has, with his pupil, reached the 
Prussian frontier, send a carriage to meet him.” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ Make him get into it, alone. You understand ? ” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“ Your majesty wishes him taken to Berlin? ” 

“ You have lost your brains to-day. Take him to Dresden, and 
thence to Prague, or any where else he pleases, even to Vienna. 
Since I have disturbed the arrangement of so honorable a man, I 
must send him to the place he came from without costing him any 
thing. I do not wish him to put his foot in my kingdom.” 

“What are your majesty’s orders about the singer? ” 

“ Take her, under an escort, whether she wishes to go' or not, to 
Sans Souci, and give her a room in the palace.” 

“ In the palace, sire? ” 

“ Yes; are you deaf? Give her the rooms of la Barberini.” 

“ What shall we do with the Barberini ? ” 

“ The Barberini is not at Berlin. She has gone. Did you not 
know it? ” 

“ No, sire.” 

“ What then do you know? As soon as she is there, tell me; never 
mind what the hour may be. You understand? These are my first 
orders, which I wish you to write No. 1, in the book of my travelling 
treasury: — the indemnity to Karl, the dismissal of Porpora, and the 
succession of Porporina to Barberini’s honors and emoluments. We 
are now at the gates of the city. Get into a good humor, Budden- 
brock, and try, the next time I wish to be incognito, to act less like a 
fool.” 


CHAPTER Cl. 

When Porpora and Consuelo reached Prague, it was extremely 
cold. The moon lighted up the old city, which yet preserved the pic- 
turesque and warlike aspect of its history. Our travellers entered it 
by the gate called Rosthor, and crossing that part on the right bank 
of the Moldau, reached the centre of the Bridge without difficulty. 
Just there, the carriage was violently arrested. 

“Heavens!” said the postilion, “my horse has stopped at the 
statue: that is a bad sign. Saint John Ne'pomuck, aid me! ” 

Consuelo, seeing that the wheel-horse was embarrassed in his 
traces, and that some time would be needed to fix things again, pro- 
posed to the maestro to dismount, and warm themselves by exercise, 


508 


CONSUELO, 


The maestro consented, and they approached the parapet to see 
where they were. From that point, the two distinct cities which 
compose Prague, of which one, called the new, was built by Charles 
IV, in 1348, the other, much older, and built like ampitheatres, 
seemed two dark mountains of stone. Here and there, from the cul- 
minating points, arose, like arrows in the air, old church spires and 
' dentelated fortifications. The Moldau whirled rapidly under the 
arches of the steep, heavy bridge, which had been the scene of so 
many events of Bohemian history. The reflection of the moon 
played around the brow of the venerated statue. Consuelo gazed at 
the statue of the venerated doctor, who looked apparently at the 
waves. The legend of Saint Nepomuck is beautiful, and his name is 
venerated by all who love liberty and independence. A confessor of 
the Empress Jane, he refused to betray the confessions, and the 
drunken Wenceslaus, who wished to become possessed of a woman’s 
secrets, unable to influence the doctor, had him drowned beneath the 
bridge of Prague. Tradition says, Just as he sank beneath the waters, 
five stars floated on the water, as if he had left the crown of martyr- 
dom behind. In memory of this, five stars have been incrusted on 
the balustrade, at the very spot he disappeared. 

La Rosmunda, who was very devout, preserved a holy memory of 
this legend of John Nepomuck, and in the enumeration of the saints 
she made her pure child invoke every night, had never forgotten this, 
the patron of all journeyers, of persons in danger, and the protector 
of fair fame. Thus, as the poor dream of boundless wealth, the Zin- 
gari made an ideal of what in her youth she had neglected. This had 
its influence on Consuelo, who knelt amid the crowd of women, pil- 
grims, beggars, and zingari, children of the mandoline, who now did 
homage to the saint, and their piety was so great, that she could not but 
reach forth her hand to them. She gave them large alms, and re- 
called the time when she had been destitute as they were. Her gen- 
erosity was so great that they consulted together, and deputed two of 
their number to tell her they were about to sing one of the hymns of 
the blessed John Nepomuck, that the saint might avert the bad omen 
which had detained them there. According to what they said, the 
music and words were old as the days of Wenceslas. 

“ Snspice quas dedimus Johannes beate, 

Tibi preces supplices, noster advocate, 

Fieri; dum vivimus ne sinas infames, 

Et nostros post obitum ccelis infer manes.” 

Porpora was glad to hear them, but did not think the hymn more 
than a century old. He heard a second one, though, which seemed 
to be a malediction addressed to Wenceslas, by his contemporaries, and 
which began thus: 

“Saevus piger imperator 
Malorum clams patrator.” 

Though Wenceslas’ crimes had done no especial harm, it seemed 
that the Bohemians took exquisite delight in cursing in the name of 
this tyrant, the abhorred name of imperator, synonymous to them 
with Stranger. There was an Austrian sentinel at each end of the 
bridge, and their orders required them to walk to the statue, face about, 
and return to the tetes de point. They were not such good Latin 
scholars as the devout people of Prague, and fancied, perhaps, they 
heard a praise of Maria Theresa or Francis of Loraine, her husband. 


C O N S U E L O. 


509 

As she heard these chants in the moonlight, in one of the most po- 
etical spots in the world, Copsiielo felt deeply penetrated with melan- 
choly. Hitherto her voyage had been gay and happy; and, by a nat- 
ural reaction, she became at once intensely sad. The postilH)n, who 
was reharnessing with due Germanic slowness, repeated from time to 
time, the words “ a bad omen,” so that it had its influence on Con- 
suelo. Every prolonged meditation, every deep reverie ended in her 
thinking of Albert. She remembered that one evening she had heard 
the canoness invoke Saint Nepomuck aloud, and Albert had said, 
“ That, aunt, is well enough for you who have taken the precaution 
to assure your own salvation by an exemplary life, but l have often 
seen persons sullied by crime, invoke the aid of this saint, to conceal 
their hidden offences from man. Thus practical devotees put on the 
mantle of deceit, quite as often as innocence.” Just then Consuelo 
fancied she heard Albert’s voice mingle in her ear with the murmur 
of evening, and the ripple of the Moldau. She asked what he, who, 
perchance, thought her so depraved, would think if he saw her pros- 
trated before the image of the saint. Half in terror, she arose. Just 
then, Porpora said, “ Come, all is ready.” 

She followed him, and was about to get into the carriage, when a 
large man, mounted on a horse, larger even in proportion than he 
was, stopped short, dismounted, and approaching her, seemed to look 
at her with a curiosity which seemed almost impertinent. 

“ What are you about, sir? ” said Porpora. It may be the fashion 
in Prague, to examine ladies in this way ; but, at all events, I am not 
disposed to submit to it.” 

The large man took the furs from his neck, still holding his horse 
by the bridle. He replied to Porpora in Bohemian, without seeing 
that the latter did not understand a word he said. Consuelo, however, 
struck by his voice, moved forward to see distinctly, and passing im- 
mediately between him and Porpora, said: “Is it you, Baron von 
Kudolstadt? ” 

“ Yes, signora, it is I, Baron Frederick, brother of Christian and 
uncle of Afbert. And is it really yourself? ” said he, with a sigh. 

Consuelo was amazed at his air, and at his cold manner. He had 
always exhibited the most chivalric gallantry to her, and now did not 
kiss his hand or even touch his furred bonnet. He did but say, in 
a remiss and almost careless air, “ Is it really yourself ?— really ? ” 

“ Tell me about .Riesenberg,” said Consuelo, with agitation. 

“ I will, signora — I will.” 

“Well, baron— tell me about Count Christian, and the canoness, 
and ” 

“ Ah I yes— I will,” said Frederick, becoming more and more stu- 
pefied. 

“ And Count Albert? ” said Consuelo, frightened at his expression. 

“ Yes, yes— Albert-— alas ! yes,” said the baron, “ I will.” 

He did not speak, however, and stood almost motionless as the 
statue. 

Porpora began to grow impatient. He was cold, and anxious to get 
on. Besides, this meeting, which affected Consuelo very much, might 
seriously alter his plans. 

“ Baron,” said he, “ to-morrow we will have the honor to wait on 
you. Let us now, however, get some supper, and warm ourselves. 
That will do us more good than compliments,” added he, between his 
teeth, springing into the carriage, into which he had almost forced 
Consuelo. 


610 


C O N S U E L U. 


“ But, my friend,” said she, “ let me find out ” 

« Let me alone,” said he, quickly. “-That man is an idiot, or else 
drunk, and will keep us all night on the bridge, without saying a word 
we can understand.” 

Consuelo was in a terrible state of anxiety. 

“You are not kind,” said she to him, while the carriage was pass- 
ing over the bridge, at the entrance of the old city. “ In one mo- 
ment, I would have heard what interests me more than anything in 
the world.” 

“ Ah ! you have not done with that yet ? ” said the maestro. 
“ This Albert is everlastingly in your mind. They are a pleasant 
family according to all appearance, and especially judging from that 
great fellow who has his cap pushed down over his brow. He was 
not even civil enough to lift it up when he saw you.” 

“ Into that family you once placed me, advising me to be dignified 
and respectful as possible ; therefore you must have had the greatest 
respect for it.” 

“ In one point of view, you obeyed me but too well.” 

Consuelo was about to' reply: she, however, calmed herself when 
she saw the baron had again mounted, and apparently had made up 
his mind to follow the carriage. She found the old noble at the door- 
way, offering her his hand, and doing all the honors of the house, for he 
had ordered the postilion to take tliein to his own residence, and not 
to an inn. Porpora wished to decline his hospitality. Consuelo and 
the baron insisted on bis coming in, for the former wished to clear up 
all doubts, and at once went into the hall. 

“ You are here, signora,” said the baron. “ I relied on you — I had 
expected you.” 

“ That is very strange,” said Consuelo; “for I had told no one of 
my intention to come. Three days ago we did not expect to come 
until the day after to-morrow.” 

“ This does not amaze you, more than it does me,” said the baron, 
in a most desponding manner. 

“ Where, however, is the Baroness Amelia,” said Consuelo, ashamed 
of not having thought of her early friend. 

A cloud cariie over the face of the Baron of Kudolstadt, and his 
ruddy complexion became at once so deadly pale that Consuelo was 
alarmed. He said, however, calmly: — 

“ My daughter is in Saxony, with one of my relations. She will be 
very sorry that she did not see you.” 

“ And the rest of your family, baron ! May I ask about them ? ” 
said Consuelo. 

“ Yes. you shall know all. Eat, Signora, for you must be hungry.” 

“ I cannot eat until you relieve my anxiety. Tell me, baron, is any 
one of the family dead? ” 

“ No one,” said the baron, sadly, as if he had announced the extinc- 
tion of his whole household. He at once began to carve with the 
solemn slowness which was always observed at Riesenberg. Consuelo 
did not wish to question him. The meal to her seemed to consume 
an infinitude of time. Porpora, who, less uneasy than hungry, sought 
to talk with his host; and the latter sought to reply kindly, and even 
to question him about his plans and schemes. This exertion was evi- 
dently too much for his power. He made no reply, or renewed his 
questions a moment after they had been answered. 

Consuelo saw there was something strange about him, and yet was 


CONSUELO. 


511 


satisfied that he was not drunk. She did not inquire whether this 
sudden decay was the result of inebriation or not, of malady or old 
age. At last, after two hours of torment, the baron, seeing that the 
meal was over, and after' having, in an air of half amazement, felt in 
his pockets, took out an open letter from the canoness, which he gave 
to Consuelo. It was as follows: — 

“ We are lost, dear brother. We have no longer any hope. Doc- 
tor Supperville has at last come from Bareith, and, after having been 
some days with us, says, that we must arrange all our family matters, 
for Albert probably will not be alive in ten days. Chi-istian, to whom 
I have not been able to tell what the doctor says, yet flatters himself. 
But that is not all ; for I am not sure that our nephew^’s death is the 
only trouble he apprehends. Frederick, we are lost! Can we survive 
such disasters? For my own part, 1 can but say, ‘ God’s will be 
done! ’ Come to us, dear brother, and try to infuse courage in us, if 
any remains in your bosom, after your ow’u misfortune — which we 
participate in. and which adds to the sorrows of a family that might 
almost call itself cursed. What have we done to deserve all this? 
May God protect me from a want of faith and submission; but leally 
there are times when I think my burdens are too great. 

“Come, brother: we expect you; and yet do not leave Prague 
before the eleventh. I wish to charge you with a strange commission. 
I think I am mad in doing so. I conform, however, to Albert’s 
wishes blindly. On the eleventh instant be on the bridge of Prague, 
at the foot of the statue. Stop the first carriage that passes, and take 
it to your house. If on that very night it can leave for Riesenberg, 
Albert perhaps will be saved — at least, he says it will win hitn eternal 
life. I do not know what he means by that. During the last eight 
days he has had the most extraordinary revelations of things we know 
nothing of, that I can no longer doubt he has the gift of looking into 
hiddeirthings. He called me this evening to his bed side, and in the 
half-stifled voice with which he now speaks, bade me write to you 
what I have faithfully done. Be, there at eleven, at the foot of the 
statue, and bring whomsoever you find in the carriage here at once.” 

When she had read the letter, Consuelo grew paler than the baron. 
She arose, but immediately fell back in her chair, with her hands con- 
tracted and hei- teeth fixed. She recoveied her strength at once, how- 
ever, when she arose and said to the baron, whose torpor had re- 
turned— “ Baron, is your carriage ready? lam ready to set out at 
once ! ” 

The baron rose mechanically and left. He liad prepared everything 
in advance. -The carriage was ready, the horses were in the yard, but 
he seemed a mere automaton ; and but for Consuelo, he would not 
thought of goi.ng. 

No sooner had he left the chamber than Porpora took the letter 
and read it. He, too, became pale, and walked before the stove, a 
prey to a terrible indisposition. The maestro could not but reproach 
himself with all that had happened. He had not foreseen, and saw 
now that he should have done so. A prey to remorse and fear, and 
feeling overcojue by the strange power of divination which had re- 
vealed to the invalid the possibility of seeing Consuehy he felt as if he 
was a prey to some strange dream. 

As no organization was, in certain respects, more positive than his, 
and as no one had a more tenacious will, he began at once to think of 
the consequences of the sudden resolution Consuelo had formed. He 


612 


C O N S U E L O. 


was much excited, struck his brow with his hands, and walked up and 
down the room. He wrung every joint, found courage, and, braving 
suspicion, bade Conseulo to revive, .while he struck her violently. 

“You wish to go,” said he. “I am willing. You wish to see 
Albert. You wish to give him the final blow. There is no means of 
avoiding it. We have two days to spare. We should pass them at 
Dresden, but we will not be able to rest there. If we are not on the 
Prussian frontier by the eighteenth, we shall not be able to keep our 
engagements. The theatre opens on the twenty-fifth, and if you ai'e 
not ready I will have to pay a considerable fine. I have but half the 
necessary sum, and in Prussia any one who cannot pay goes to prison. 
Once in prison, a man is forgotten, and ten, twenty years await you — 
until death comes. This is what awaits me, if you do not leave Rie- 
senberg at five o’clock on the morning of the fourteenth.” 

“ Do not be tmeasy, maestro,” said Consuelo, with all the energy of 
resolution, “ I have already thought of that. Do not make me un- 
easy at Riesenberg, aiid we leave at the time you say.” 

“ You must swear to do so.” 

“I will,” said she, shrugging her shoulders impatiently. “When 
your life or liberty are at stake, I fancy you need no oath.” 

Just then the baron came in, followed by an old intelligent servant, 
who wrapped him up in a pelisse as if he had been a child, and took 
him to his carriage. They soon came to Beraun, and were at Pilsen 
before daybreak. 


CHAPTER CII. 

From Pilsen to Tauss they went as rapidly as possible, but much 
time was lost by the roads running through almost impenetrable for- 
ests, in passing which passengers underwent more than one danger. 
At last, after travelling scarcely more than a league an hour, they 
came to the Giants’ Castle. Consuelo had never had a more fatiguing 
ora more disagreeable journey. The Baron of Rudolstadt seemed al- 
most paralyzed, so indolent and gouty liad he become. Only a year 
before, Consuelo had seen him strong as a boxer. Tlien, his iron fi-’ame 
was animated by a stout heart. He had ever obeyed his instincts; 
and at the first impression of unexpected misfortune, he had beeii 
crushed. The pity with which he inspired Consuelo increased her 
uneasiness. She said to herself “Shall I find all the ininates of Ries- 
enberg in this condition ? ” 

The drawbridge was down, and the grating open. The servatits 
stood in the hall with burning torches. No one was able to speak a 
word to the servants. Porpora. seeing that the baron could scarcely 
walk, took him by the arm and attempted to aid him, while Consuelo 
liurried rapidly up the main entrance. 

She met the canoness in the doorway, and without even pausing to 
speak the common-place salutations, took her by the arm. and said— 

“ Follow m^ we have not a moment to lose. Albert begins to grow 
impatient. IBb has counted the hours and minutes till your arrival, 
and announced your approach a moment before we heard the sound 
of your carriage wheels. He had no doubt on his mind of your com- 
ing; but he said, if any accident should happen to detain you, it 


CONSUELO. 


513 


would be too late. Come, signora ; and in the name of Heaven do 
not oppose any of his wishes ; promise all he asks, pretend to love him, 
and if it must be, practise a friendly deceit. Albert’s hours are num- 
bered, his life draws to a close. Endeavor to soothe his sufterings, it 
is all that we ask of you.” 

Thus saying, Wenceslawa led Consuelo in the direction of the 
great saloon. 

“ He is up then — he is not confined to his chamber ? ” exclaimed 
Consuelo, hastily. 

“ He no longer rises, for he never retires to bed,” replied the can- 
oness. “ For thirty days he has sat in his arm-chair in the saloon, 
and will not be removed elsewhere. The doctor says he must not be 
opposed on this point, and that he would die if he were moved. Take 
courage, signora, you are about to behold a terribie spectacle.” 

The canoness opened the door of the saloon, and added — 

“ Fly to him; you need not fear to surprise him, for he expects you, 
and has seen you coming hours ago.” 

Consuelo darted towards her betrothed, who, as the canoness had 
said, was seated in a large arm-chair beside the fire-place. It was no 
longer a man — it was a spectre which she beheld. His face still beau- 
tiful, notwithstanding the ravages of disease, was as a face of marble. 
There was no smile on his lips — no ray of joy in his eyes. The doc- 
tor, who held his arm and felt his pulse, let it fall gently, and looked 
at the canoness, as much as to say — “ It is too late.” Consuelo knelt 
before him; he looked fixedly at her, but said nothing. At last he 
signed with his finger to the canoness, who had learued to interpret 
all his wishes. She took his arms, which he was no longer able to 
raise, and placed them on Consuelo’s shoulder. Then she made the 
young girl lay her head on Albert’s bosom, and as the voice of the 
dying man was gone, he was merely able to whisper in her ear — “ I 
am'happy.” He remained in this position for about two minutes, the 
head of his beloved resting on his bosom, and his lips pressed to her 
raven hair. Then he looked at his aunt, and by some hardly percep- 
tible movement he made her understand that his father and his aunt 
were both to kiss his betrothed. 

“From my very heart! ” exclaimed the canoness, embracing Con- 
suelo with deep emotion. Then she raised her to conduct her to 
Count Christian, whom Consuelo had not hitherto perceived. 

Seated in a second arm-chair, placed opposite his son’s at the other 
side of the fire-place, the old count seeim^ almost as much weakened 
and reduced. He was still able to rise, however, and take a few steps 
through the saloon; but he was obliged to be carried every evening to 
his bed, which had been placed in an adjoining room. At that mo- 
ment he held his brother’s hand in one of his, and Porpora’s in the 
other. He then left them to embrace Consuelo fervently several times. 
The almoner of the chateau came also in his turn to salute her, in 
order to gratify Albert. He also seemed like a spectre, notwithstand- 
standing his embonpoint which had only increased; but his paleness 
was frightful. The habits of an indolent and effeminate life had so 
enervated him that he could not endure the sorrow of others. The 
canoness ahuie retained energy for all. A bright, red spot shone on 
each cheek, and her eyes burnt with a feverish brightness. Albert 
alone appeared calm. His brow was cairn as a sleeping infant’s, and 
his physical prostration did not seem to have affected his mental 
powers. He was grave, and not like his father and uncle, dejected. 


514 


CONSUELO, 


In the midst of these different victims to disease or sorrow, the phy- 
sician’s calm and healthful countenance offered a striking contrast to 
all that surrounded him. Supperville’was a Frenchman who had for- 
merly been attached to the household of Frederick when the latter 
was only crown prince. Early aware of the despotic fault-finding 
turn which lurked in the prince, he fixed himself at Bareith, in the 
service of Sophia Wilhelmina, sister to the King of Prussia. At once 
jealous and ambitions, Supperville was the very model of a courtier. 
An indifferent physician, in spite of the local reputation he enjoyed, 
he was a complete man of the world, a keen observer, and tolerably 
conversant with the moral springs of disease. He had urged the can- 
oness to satisfy all the desires of her nephew, and had hoped some- 
thing from the return of her for whom Albert was dying. But, however 
he might reckon his pulse and examine his countenance after Gonsue- 
lo’s arrival, he did not the less continiie to reiterate that the time was 
past, and he determined to take his departure, in order not to witness 
scenes of despair which it was no longer in his power to avert. 

He resolved, however, whether in conformity with some interested 
scheme, or merely to gratify his natural taste of intrigue, to make 
himself busy in family affairs; and seeing that no person in this be- 
wildered family thought of turning the passing moments to account, 
he led Consuelo into the embrasure of a window, and addressed her 
as follows: — 

“ Mademoiselle, a doctor is in some sort a confessor, and I therefore 
soon became aware of the secret passion which hurries this young man 
to the grave. Asa medical man, accustomed habitually to investigate 
the laws of the physical world which do not really vary, 1 must say 
that I do not believe in the strange vision and ecstatic revelations of 
the young count. As regards yourself, it is easy to ascribe them to 
secret communication with you, relative to your journey to Prague, 
and your subsequent arrival here.” 

And as Consuelo made a sign in the negative, he continued: 

“ I do not question you, mademoiselle, and my conjectures need not 
offend you. Rather confide in me, and look upon me as entirely de- 
voted to your interests.” 

“ I do not understand you, sir,” replied Consuelo, with a candor 
which was far from convincing the court doctor. 

“ Perhaps you will understand presently mademoiselle,” he coolly 
rejoined. “ The young count’s relations have vehemently opposed the 
marriage up to this day. But now their opposition is at an end. Al- 
bert is about to die, and as fte wishes to leave you his fortune, they 
cannot object to a religious ceremony that will secure it to you for 
ever.” 

“ Alas ! what matters Albert’s fortune to me,” said the bereaved 
Consuelo ; “ what has that to do with his present situation ? It is not 
business that brings me here, sir; I came to endeavor to save him. 
Is there no hope then ? ” 

“ None ! This disease, entirely proceeding from the mind, is amongst 
those which baffles all our skill. It is not a month since the young 
count, after an absence of fifteen days, the cause of which no one 
could explain, returned to his home attacked by a disease at once sud- 
den and incurable. All the functions of life were as if suspended. 
For thirty days he has swallowed no sort of food; and it is a rare ex- 
ception, only witnessed in the case of the insane, to see life supported 
by a few drops of liquid daily, and a few minutes sleep each night. HU 


CONSUELO. 


515 

vital powers, as you perceive, are now quite exhansted, and in a couple 
of days at the farthest he will have ceased to suffer. Arm yourself 
with courage then ; do not lose your presence of mind. I am here to 
aid you, and you have only to act boldly.” 

Consuelo was still gazing at the doctor with astonishment, when the 
canoness, on a sign from the patient, interrupted their colloquy by 
summoning him to Albert’s side. 

On his approach, Albert whispered in his ear for a longer period 
than his feebleness would have seemed to permit. Supperville turned 
red and pale alternately. The canoness looked at them anxiously, 
burning to know what wish Albert expressed. 

“ Doctor,” said Albert, “ I heard all you said just now to that young 
lady.” 

The doctor, who had spoken in a low whisper and at the farthest 
extremity of the saloon, became exceedingly confused at this remark, 
and his convictions respecting the impossibility of any snperhunmn 
faculty were so shaken that he stared wildly at Albert, unable to utter 
a word. 

“ Doctor,” continued the dying man, “ you do not understand that 
heavenly creature’s soul, and you only interfere with my design by 
alarming her delicacy. She shares none of your ideas respecting 
money. She never coveted my fortune or my title. She never loved 
me, and it is to her pity alone you must appeal. Speak to her heart. 
I am nearer my end than you suppose; lose no time. I cannot expire 
happy if I do not carry with me into the night of my repose the title 
of her husband.” 

“ But what do you mean by these last words,” said Supperville, who 
at that moment was solely busied in analyzing the mental disease of 
his patient. 

“ You could not understand them,” replied ..llbert, with an effort, 
“ but she will understand them. You have only to repeat them faith- 
fully to her.” 

” Count,” said Supperville, raising his voice a little, “ I find I cannot 
succeed in interpreting your ideas clearly; you have just spoken with 
more force and distinctness than you have done for the last eight days, 
and I cannot but draw a favorable augury from it. Speak to made- 
moiselle yourself; a word from you will convince her more than all I 
could say. There she is; let her take my place and listen to you.” 

Supperville in fact found himself completely at fault in an affair 
which he thought he had understood perfectly; and thinking he bad 
said enough to Consuelo to insure her gratitude in the event of her 
realizing the fortune, he retired, after Albert had further said to 
him : — 

“ Remember what you promised. The time has arrived ; speak to 
my relatives. Let them consent, and delay not. The hour is at hand.” 

Albert was so exhausted by the effort he had just made, that he leaned 
his forehead on Consuelo’s "breast when she approached him, and re- 
mained for some moments in this position, as if at the point of death. 
His white lips turned livid, and Porpora, terrified, feared that he had 
uttered his last sigh. During this time Supperville had collected 
Count Christian, the baron, the canoness, and chaplain, round the 
fire-place, and addressed them earnestly. The chaplain was the only 
person who ventured on an objection, which, although apparently 
faint, was in reality as powerful as the old priest could urge. 

“ If your excellencies demand it,” said he, “ I shall lend my sacred 


616 


CONSUELO. 


functions to the celebration of this marriage. But Count Albert, not 
being at present in a state of grace, must first through confession and 
extreme unction make his peace with the church.” 

“ Extreme unction ! ” said the canoness, with a stifled groan. 
“ Gracious God ! is it come to that? ” 

‘‘ It is even so,” replied Supperville, who, as a man of the w'orld 
and a disciple of the Voltaire school of philosophy, detested both the 
chaplain and his objections; “ yes, it is even so, and without remedy; 
if his reverence the chaplain insists on this point, and is bent on tor- 
menting Count Albert by the dreary apparatus of death.” 

“ And do you think,” said Count Christian, divided between his 
sense of devotion and his paternal tenderness, “ that a gayer cere- 
mony, and one more congenial with his wishes might prolong his 
days ? ” 

“ I can answer positively for nothing,” replied Supperville, “ but I 
venture to anticipate much good from it. Your excellency consented 
to this marriage formerly.” 

“ I always consented to it. I never opposed it,” said the count de- 
signedly raising his voice; “ it was Master Porpora who wrote to say 
that he would never consent, and that she likewise had renounced ail 
idea of it. Alas ! ” he added, lowering his voice, “ it was the death 
blow to my poor child.” 

“You hear what my father says,” murmured Albert in Consuelo’s 
ear, “but do not grieve for it. I believed you had abandoned me, 
and I gave myself up to despair; but during the last eight days I 
have regained my reason, which they call my madness. I have read 
hearts as others open books — I have read, with one glance, the past, 
the present, and the future. I learned, in short, that you were faith- 
ful, Consuelo ; that you had endeavored to love me ; and that you had, 
indeed, for a time succeeded. But they deceived us both ; forgive 
your master, as I forgive him.” 

Consuelo looked at Porpora, who could not indeed catch Albert’s 
words, but who, on hearing those of Count Christian, was much agi- 
tated, and walked up and down before the fire with hurried strides. 
She looked at him with an air of solemn reproach; and the maestro 
understood her so well that he struck his forehead violently with his 
clenched hand. Albert signed to Consuelo to bring the maestro close 
to his couch, and to assist him to hold out his hand. Porpora pressed 
the cold fingers to his lips, and burst into tears. His conscience re- 
proached him with homicide ; but his sincere and heartfelt repentance 
palliated in some measure his fatal error. 

Albert made a sign that he wished to listen what reply his relations 
made to the doctor, and he heard it, though they spoke so low that 
Porpora and Consuelo, who were kneeling by his side, could not dis- 
tinguish a word. 

The chaplain withstood, as well as he could, Supperville’s bitter 
irony, while the canoness sought by a mixture of superstition and 
tolerance, of Christian charity and maternal tenderness, to conciliate 
what was irreconcileable to the Catholic faith. The question w’as mere- 
ly one of forin— that is to say, whether the chaplain would consider it 
right to administer the marriage sacrament to a heretic, unless indeed 
the latter would conform to the Catholic faith immediately afterwards. 
Supperville indeed did not hesitate to say that Count Albert had pro- 
mised to profess and believe anything after the ceremony was over; 
but the chaplain was not to be duped. At last. Count Christian, call- 


CONSUELO. 


517 

ing to his aid that quiet firmness and plain good sense with which} 
although after much weakness and hesitation, he had always put an 
end to domestis differences, spoke as follows: — 

“Reverend Sir,” said he to the chaplain, “ there is no ecclesiastical 
law which expressly forbids the marriage of a Catholic to a schismatic. 
The church tolerates these alliances. Consider Corisuelo then as or- 
thodox, my son as a heretic, and marry them at once. Confession 
and betrothal, as you are aware, are but matters of precept, and in 
certain cases may be dispensed with. Some favorable change may re- 
sult from this marriage, and when Albert is cured it will then be time 
to speak of his conversion.” 

The chaplain had never opposed the wishes of Count Christian, who 
was in his eyes a superior arbiter in cases of conscience even to the 
pope himself. There only now remained to convince Consuelo. This 
Albert alone thought of, and drawing her towards him, he succeeded 
in clasping the neck of his beloved with his emaciated and shadowy 
arms. 

“ Consuelo,” said he, “ I read at this hour in your soul that you 
would give your life to restore mine. That is no longer possible; but 
you can restore me forever by a simple act of your will. I leave yo.u 
for a time, but I shall soon return to earth under some new form. I 
shall return unhappy and wretched if you now abandon me. You 
know that the crimes of Ziska still remain unexpiated, and you alone, 
my sister Wanda, can purify me in the new phase of my existence. 
We are brethren, to become lovers, death must cast his gloomy shadow 
between us. But we must, by a solemn engagement^ become man and 
wife, that in my new birth I may regain my calmness and strength, and 
become, like other men, freed from the dreary memories of the past. 
Only consent to this engagement; it will not bind you in this life, 
which I am about to quit, but it will unite us in eternity. It will be a 
pledge whereby we can recognize each other, should death affect the 
clearness of our recollections. Consent; it is but a ceremony of the 
church which I accept, since it is the only one which in the estima- 
tion of men can sanction our mutual relation. This I must carry 
with me to the tomb. A marriage without the assent of my family 
would be incomplete in my eyes. Ours shall be indissoluble in oui 
hearts, as it is sacred in intention. Consent!” 

“ I consent! ” exclaimed Consuelo, pressing her lips to the pale, cold 
forehead of her betrothed. 

These words were heard by all. 

“ Well,” said Supperville, “ let us hasten; ” and he urged the chap- 
lain vigorously, who summoned the domestics and gave tliem instruc- 
tions to have everything prepared for the ceremony. Count Christian, 
a little revived, sat close beside his son and Consuelo. The good can- 
oness thanked the latter warmly for her condescension, and was so 
much affected as even to kneel before her and kiss her hands. Baron 
Frederick wept in silence, without appearing to know what was going 
on. In the twinkling of an eye an altar was erected in the great sa- 
loon. The domestics were dismissed; they thought it was only the 
last rites of the church which were about to be administered, and 
that the patient required silence and fresh air. Porpora and Supper- 
ville served as witnesses. Albert found strength sufficient to pro- 
nounce the decisive yes and the other forms wiiich the ceremony re- 
quired, in a clear and sonorous voice, and the family from this re- 
ceived a lively hope of his recovery. Hardly had the chaplain recited 


CONSUELO. 


618 

tlje closing prayer over the newly-married couple, ere Albert arose, 
threw himself into his father’s arms and embraced him, as well as his 
aunt, his uncle, and Porpora, earnestly and rapidly; then seating him- 
self in his arm-chair, he pressed Consuelo to his heart and ex 
claimed : — 

“ I am saved ! ” 

“ It is the final effort, the last convulsion of nature,” said Supper- 
ville, who had several times examined the features, and felt the pulse 
of the patient, while the marriage ceremony was proceeding. 

In fact Albert’s arras loosed their hold, fell forward, and rested on 
his knees. His aged and faithful dog, Cynabre, who had not left his 
feet during the whole period of his illness, raised his head and uttered 
thrice a dismal howl. Albert’s gaze was rivetted on Consuelo; his 
lips remained apart as if about to address her; a faint glow animated 
his cheek, and then gradually that peculiar and indescribable shade 
w’hicli is the forerunner of death, crept from his forehead down to 
his lips, and by degrees overshadowed his whole face as with a snowy 
veil. The silence of terror which brooded over the breathless and 
attentive group of spectators was interrupted by the doctor, who, in 
solemn accents, pronounced the irrevocable decree — “ It is the hand 
of death ! ” 


CHAPTER CHI. 

Count Christian fell back senseless in his chair. The canoness, 
sobbing convulsively, flung herself on Albert’s remains, as if she 
hoped by her caresses to rouse him to life again, while Baron Freder- 
ick uttered some unmeaning words with a sort of idiotic calm. Sup- 
perville approached Consuelo, whose utter immobility terrified him 
more than the agitatipn of the others. 

“ Do not trouble yourself about me, sir,” she said ; “ nor you either, 
my friend,” added she, addressing Porpora, who hastened to add his 
condolence, “but remove his unhappy relatives, and endeavor to sus- 
tain and comfort them; as for me, 1 shall remain here. The dead 
need nothing but respect and prayers.” 

The count and the baron suffered themselves to be led away with- 
out resistance; and as for the canoness, she was carried, cold and 
apparently lifeless, to her apartment, where Supperville followed to 
give assistance. Porpora, no longer knowing where he was or w'hat 
he did, rushed out and wandered through the gardens like an insane 
person. He felt as if suffocated. His habitual insensibility was more 
apparent than real. Scenes of grief and terror had excited his im- 
pressionable imagination, and he hastened onward by the light of the 
moon, pursued by gloomy voices which chaunted a frightful Dieu irce 
incessantly in his ears. 

Consuelo remained alone with Albert; for hardly had the chaplain 
begun to recite the pi'ayers for the dead, when he fainted away, and 
was borne off in his turn. The poor man had insisted on silting up 
along with the canoness during the whole of Albert’s illness, and was 
utterly exhausted. The Countess of Rudolstadt, kneeling by the side 
of her husband, and holding his cold hands in hers, her head pressed 
against his which beat no longer, fell into deep abstraction. What Con- 


CONSUELO. 


619 


suelo experienced at this moment was not exactly pain ; at least it was 
not that bitter regret which accompanies the loss of beings necessary 
to our daily happiness. Her regard for Albert was not of this intimate 
character, and his death left no apparent void in her existence. The 
despair of losing those whom we love, not unfrequentlyresolves it- 
self into selfishness and abhorrence of the new duties imposed upon 
us. One part of this grief is legitimate and proper; the other is not 
so, and it should be combated, though it is just as natural. Nothing 
of all th’S mingled with the solemn and tender melancholy of Consu- 
elo. Albert’s nature was foreign to her own iu every respect, except 
in one — the admiration, respect, and sympathy witli which he had 
inspired her. She had chalked out a plan of life without him, and 
had even renounced the idea of an affection which, until two days 
before, ?he had thought extinct. What now remained to her was the 
desire and duty of proving faithful to a sacred pledge. Albert had 
been already dead as regarded her; he was now nothing more, and 
was perhaps even less so in some respects, for Consuelo, long exalted 
by intercourse with his lofty sold, had come in her dreamy reverie to 
adopt in a measure some of his poetical convictions. The belief in 
the transmission of souls had received a strong foundation in her in- 
stinctive repugnance towards the idea of eternal punishment after 
death, and in her Christian faith in the immortality of the soul. Al- 
bert, alive, but prejudiced against her by appearances, seemed as if 
wrapped in a veil, transported into another existence incomplete in 
comparison with that which he had proposed to devote to pure and 
lofty affection and unshaken confidence. But Albert, restored to this 
faitii in her and to his enthusiastic affection, and yielding up his last 
breath on her bosom — had he then ceased to exist as regarded her? 
Did he not live in all the plenitude of a cloudless existence in passing 
under the triumphal arch of a glorious death, which conducted him 
either to a temporary repose, or to immediate consciousness in a 
purer and more heavenly state of being? To die struggling with 
one’s own weakness, and to awake endowed with strength; to die 
forgiving the w-icked, and to awake under the influence and protec- 
tion of the upright; to die in sincere repentance, and to awake ab- 
solved and purified by the innate influence of virtue— are not these 
heavenly rewards? 

Consuelo, already initiated by Albert into doctrines which had 
their origin among the Hussites of old Bohemia, as well as among 
the mysterious sects of preceding ages, who had humbly endeavored 
to interpret the words of Chi’ist-^Consuelo, I repeat, convinced, more 
from her gentle and affectionate nature than by the force of reason- 
ing. that the soul of her husband was not suddenly removed from 
her for ever, and carried into regions inaccessible to human sympa- 
thies, mingled with this belief some of the superstitious ideas of her 
childhood. She had believed in spirits as the common people believe 
in them, and had more than once dreamed that she saw her mother 
approach to protect and shield her from danger. It was a sort of 
belief in the eternal communion of the souls of the living and the 
dead — a simple and childlike faith, which has ever existed, as it were, 
against that creed which would for ever separate the spirits of the 
departed from this lower world, and assign them a perfectly different 
and far distant sphere of action. 

Consuelo, still kneeling by Albert’s remains, could not bring herself 
to believe that he was dead, and could not comprehend the dread na- 


520 


CONSUELO. 


ture either of the word or of the reality. It did not seem possible 
that life could pass away so soon, and that the functions of heart and 
brain had ceased for ever. “ No,” thought she, “ the divine spark 
still lingers, and hesitates to return to the hand which gave it, and 
who is about to resume his gift in order to send it forth under a re- 
newed form into some loftier sphere. There is still, perhaps, a mys- 
terious life existing in the yet warm bosom ; and besides, wherever 
the soul of Albert is, it secs, understands, knows all that has taken 
place here. It seeks, perhaps, some aliment in my love — an impulsive 
power to aid it in some new and heavenly career.” And, filled with 
these vague thoughts, she continued to love Albert, to open her soul 
to him, to express her devotion to him, to repeat her oath of fidelity 
— in short, in feeling and idea, to treat him, not as a departed spirit 
for whom one weeps without hope, but as a sleeping friend, whose 
awakening smiles we joyfully await. 

When Porpora had become more composed, he thought with terror 
of the situation in which he had left his pupil, and hastened to rejoin 
her. He was surprised to find her as cairn as if she had watched by 
the bedside of a sleeping friend. He would have spoken to her, and 
urged her to take some repose. 

“ Do not utter unmeaning words,” said she, “ in presence of this 
sleeping angel. Do you retire to rest, my dear master; I shall remain 
here.” 

‘‘ Would you then kill yourself?” said Porpora, in despair. 

“No, my friend, I shall live,” replied Consuelo; “ I shall fulfil all 
my duties towards him and towards you; but not for one instant shall 
I leave his side this night.” 

When morning came all was still. An overpowering drowsiness 
had deadened all sense of suffering. The physician, exhausted by fa- 
tigue, had retired to rest. Porpora slumbered in his chair, his head 
supported on Count Christian’s bed. Consuelo alone felt no desire to 
abandon her post. The count was unable to leave his bed, but Baron 
Frederick, his sister, and the chaplain, proceeded almost mechanically 
to offer up their prayers before the altar; after which they began to 
speak of the interment. The canoness, regaining ’strength w'hen 
necessity required her services, summoned her wonian and old Hans 
to aid her in the necessary duties. Porpora and the doctor then in- 
sisted on Consuelo taking some repose, and she yielded to their en- 
treaties, after first paying a visit to Count Christian, who apparently 
did not recognise her. It was hard to say whether he waked or slept, 
for his eyes were open, his respiration calm, and his face without ex- 
pression. 

When Consuelo awoke, after a few hours’ repose, she returned to 
the saloon, but was struck with dismay to find it empty. Albert had 
been laid upon a bier, and carried to the chapel. His arm-chair was 
empty, and in the same position where Consuelo had formerly seen it. 
It was all that remained to remind her of him in this place, where 
every hope and aspiration of the family had been centred for so many 
bitter days. Even his dog had vanished. The summer sun lighted 
up the sombre wainscoating of the apartment, while the merry call of 
the blackbii-ds sounded from the garden with insolent gaiety. Con- 
suelo passed on to the adjoining "apartment, the door of which was 
half opened. Count Christian, who still kept his couch, lay appar- 
ently insensible to the loss he had just sustained, and his sister 
watched over him with the same vigilant attention that she had for- 


CONSUELO. 


521 


raerly shown to Albert. The baron gazed at the burning logs with a 
stupefied air; but the silent tears which trickled down his aged cheeks 
showed that bitter memory was still busy with his heart. 

Consuelo approached the canoness to kiss her hand, but the old 
lady diew it back from her with evident marks of aversion. Poor 
Wenceslawa only beheld in her the destroyer of her nephew. At first 
she had held the marriage in detestation, and had opposed it with all 
her might; but when she had seen that time and absence alike failed 
to induce Albert to renounce his engagement, and that his reason, life, 
and health depended on it, she had come to desire it, as much as she 
had before hated and repelled it. Porpora’s refusal, the exclusive pas- 
sion for the theatre which he ascribed to Consuelo, and, in short, all 
the officious and fatal falsehood's which he had despatched in succes- 
sion to Count Christian, without ever adverting to the letters which 
Consuelo had written, but which he had suppressed — had occasioned 
the old man infinite suffering, and aroused in the canoness’s breast 
the bitterest indignation. She felt nothing but hate and contempt for 
Consuelo. She could pardon her, she said, for having perverted Al- 
bert’s reason through this fatal attachment, but she could not forgive 
her for having so basely betrayed him. Every look of the poor aunt, 
who knew not that the real enemy of Albert’s peace was Porpora, 
seemed to say, You have destroyed our child ; you could not restore 
him again ; and now the disgrace of your alliance is all that remains 
to us.” 

This silent declaration of war hastened Consuelo’s resolve to com- 
fort, so far as might be, the canoness for this last misfortune. “ May 
1 request,” said she, “that your ladyship will favor me with a pri- 
vate interview? I must leave this to-morrow ere daybreak; but before 
setting out I would fain make known ray respectful intentions.” 

“ Your intentions? Oh, I can easily guess them,” replied the can- 
oness, bitterly. “ Do not be uneasy, mademoiselle, all shall be as it 
ought to be, and the rights which the law yields you shall be strictly 
respected.” 

“ I perceive you do not comprehend me, madam,” replied Consuelo. 
“ I therefore long ” 

“ Well,” since I must drain the bitter cup to the dregs,” said the 
canoness, rising, “ let it be now^ while I have still courage to endure 
it. Follow me, signora. My eldest brother appears to slumber, and 
Supperville, who has consented to remain another day, will take my 
place for half an hour.” 

She rang, and desired the doctor to be sent for, then turning to the 
baron ” 

“ Brother,” said she, “ your cares are useless, since Christian is still 
unconscious of his misfortune. He may never be otherwise— happily 
for him, but most unhappily for us! Perhaps insensibility is but the 
forerunner of death. I have now only you in the world, my brother; 
take care of your health, which this dreary inaction has only too 
much affected already. You were always accustomed to air and exer- 
cise. Go out, take your gun, the huntsman will follow with the dogs. 
Do, I entreat you for my sake; it is the doctor’s orders, as well as 
your sister’s prayer. Do not reffise me; it is the greatest consolation 
you can bestow on my unhappy old age.” 

The baron hesitated, but at last yielded the point. The servants 
led him out, and he followed them like a child. The doctor examined 
Count Christian, who still seemed hardly conscious, though he an- 


522 


C O N S U E L O. 


swered any questions which were put to him with gentle indifference, 
and appeared to recognise those around him. “ After all,” said Sup- 
perville, ” he is not so ill ; and if lie pass a good night, all may turn out 
well.” 

Wenceslawa, a little consoled, left her brother in the doctor’s care, 
and conducted Consuelo to a large apartment, richly decorated in an 
antique fashion, where she had never been befoi’e. It contained a 
large state-bed, the curtains of which had not been stirred for more 
than twenty years. It was that in which Wanda Prachalitz, the 
mother of Count Albert had breathed her last sigh, for this had been 
her apartment. “ It was here,” said the canoness, with a solemn air, 
after having closed the door, ‘‘ that we found Albert — it is now two 
and thirty days since — after an absence of thirteen. From that day 
to this he never entered it again; nor did he once quit the arm-chair 
where yesterday he expired.” 

The dry, cold manner with which the canoness uttered this fune- 
real announcement struck a dagger to Consuelo’s heart. She then 
took from her girdle her inseparable bunch of keys, w’alked towards 
a large cabinet of sculptured oak, and opened both its doors. Con- 
suelo saw that it contained a perfect mountain of jewels, tarnished by 
age, of a strange fashion, the larger portion antique, and enriched by 
diamonds and precious stones of considerable value. ‘‘ These,” said 
the canoness to her, ‘‘are the family jewels, which were the property 
of ray sister-in-law, Count Christian’s wife, before her marriage; here, 
in this partition, are my grandmother’s, which my brothers and my- 
self made her a present of; and lastly, here are those which her hus- 
band bought for her. All these descended to her son Albert, and 
henceforth belong to you, as his widow. Take them, and do not fear 
that any one here will dispute with you these riches, to which we 
attach no importance, and with which we have nothing more to do. 
The title-deeds of ray nephew’s maternal inheritance will be placed 
in your hands within an hour. All is in order, as I told you; and as 
to those of his paternal inheritance, you will not, alas ! have proba- 
bly long to wait for them. Such was Albert’s last wishes. My pro- 
mise to act in conformity with them had, in his eyes, all the force of 
a will.” 

“Madam,” replied Consuelo, closing the cabinet with a movement 
of disgust, “I should have torn the will had there been one, and I 
pray you now to take back your word. I have no more need than 
you for all these i-iches. It seems to me that my life would be forever 
stained by the possession of them. If Albert bequeathed them to me, 
it was doubtless with the idea that conformably to his feelings and 
habits, I would distribute them to the poor. But I should be a bad 
dispenser of these noble charities; I have neither the talents nor the 
knowledge necessary to make a useful disposition of them. It is to 
you, madam, who unite to those qualities a Christian spirit as gener- 
ous as that of Albert, it belongs to employ this inheritance in works 
of charity. I relinquish to you rny rights, (if indeed I can be said to 
have any,) of which I am ignorant, and wish always to remain so. I 
claim from your goodness only one favor, viz., tliat you will never 
wound my feelings by renewing such offers.” 

The canoness changed her expression, but could not condescend to 
admire her. She asked — 

“But what do you intend to do?” looking fixedly at her. “You 
have no fortune.” 


CO N s u E i.o. 523 

“ I beg your pardon, I am rich enough. My tastes are simple, and 
I am fond of art.” 

“ Then you expect to resume what you call your business?” 

“ I am forced to do so, madam, from reasons which do not permit 
me to hesitate, notwithstanding my present distress.” 

“ And you are unwilling to sustain your new rank in society in any 
other manner? ” 

“ What rank ? ” 

“ That of Albert’s widow.” 

“ I never will forget that I am the widow of the noble-hearted Al- 
bert, and my conduct shall be worthy of the husband I have lost.” 

“ But the Countess of Rudolstadt expects to return to the stage!” 

There is no Countess Rudolstadt, nor will there be, after you, ex- 
cept your niece, Amelia.” 

“ Do you scoff at me by mentioning her name? ” said the canoness, 
who started as if she had been touched with a heated iron. 

“ Why, madam ? ” said Consuelo, and her candor was too apparent 
to permit it to be mistaken, “Tell me, for heaven’s sake, why the 
young baroness is not iiere? Can she be dead, too? ” 

“ No,” said the canoness, bitterly, “ would she were. Let us not, 
however, talk of her.” 

“ I must, madam, ren)iud you of something I had not before 
thought of She is the only and lawful heiress of your family titles. 
This must put your mind at rest in relation to Albert’s depositions. 
The laws do not permit you to make any appropriation in my favor.” 

“ Nothing can deprive you of your rights as a dowager, and of a 
title the last will of Albert placed at your disposal.” 

“Nothing can prevent me from renouncing them. Albert was 
aware that I wished to be neither rich nor a countess.” 

“ The world will not permit you to renounce them.” 

“ The world ! ah ! that is precisely the point 1 wished to get at. 
The world will not comprehend Albert’s love nor his family’s kind- 
ness to such a poor girl as I am. It w'ould be a reproach to his mem- 
ory, a stain to your life — it would make me ridiculous, perhaps dis- 
grace me. I repeat, the world will understand nothing that has 
passed between us. The world must always be ignorant of this, 
madam, as your servants are. Porpora and the doctor are now the 
only confidants in this secret marriage — and neither have, nor will di- 
vulge it. I will answer for the first, and you can assure yourself of 
the discretion of the other. Be at ease then, madam — for you can 
bury this secret with you, and the Baroness Amelia never will know 
that I have the honor of being her cousin. Forget, then, the scenes 
of the last hour of Count Albert’s life, and let me only bless him and 
be silent. You have tears enough to shed, without my adding to your 
sorrow and mortification, by reciting my existence to you as the 
widow of your child.” 

“ Consuelo,” said the Canoness sobbing, “ remain with us. You 
have a noble heart and strong mind. Do not leave us.” 

“ That would be the wish of my heart, which is devoted to you,” 
said Consuelo, receiving Wenceslawa’s caresses with great emotion. 
“I cannot do so, without our secret being known, or guessed at, 
and that amounts to the same. The honor of your family is dearer 
to me than life. Let me wrest myself from your arms without any 
delay or hesitation, and thus do you the only service in my power.” 

The tears the canoness shed at the conclusion of this scene^ 


CONSUELO. 


524 

reliered her from the burden which oppressed her. They were the 
first she had shed since her nephew’s death. She consented to the 
sacrifices of Consuelo, and by her confidence proved that she appre- 
ciated her noble resolution. She left her to tell the chaplain of it, and 
to induce Supperville and Porpora to be silent about the marriage. 


CONCLUSION. 

Consuelo, finding herself at perfect liberty, passed the day in wan- 
dering about the chateau, the garden, and the environs, in order to 
revisit all the places that recalled to her Albert’s love. She even al- 
lowed her pious fervor to carry her as far as the Schreckenstein, and 
seated herself upon the stone, in that frightful solitude which Albert 
had so long filled with his grief. But she soon retired, feeling her 
courage fail her, and almost imagining that she heard a hollow groan 
issuing from the bowels of the rock. She dare not admit even to her- 
self that she heard it distinctly : Albert and Zdenko were no more, 
and the allusion, therefore, for it was plainly such, could not prove 
otherwise than hurtful and enervating. Consuelo hurriedly left the 
spot. 

On returning to the chateau towards evening, she saw the Baron 
Frederick, who had by degrees strengthened himself on his legs, and 
had regained some animation in the pursuit of his fivorite amusement. 
The huntsmen who accompanied him started the game, and the 
baron, whose skill had not deserted him, picked up his victims with 
a deep sigh. 

“ He, at least, will live and be consoled,” thought the young widow. 

The canoness supped, or affected to do so, in her brother’s room. 
The chaplain, who had been praying by the side of the deceased in 
the chapel, made an attempt to join them. He had a fever, however, 
and at the first mouthful felt sick. — This offended Supperville, who 
was hungry and had to let his soup grow cold while he went with 
him to his room ; he could not refrain from saying — “ Those people 
have no nerve! There are but two men here — the canoness and the 
signora!” He soon returned, resolved not to torment himself a 
gi eat deal about the poor priest, and like the baron played a good part 
at supper. Porpora was much affected, though he did not seem to be, 
and could neither eat nor speak. Consuelo thought of the last meal 
she had eaten at the table between Anzoleto and Albert. 

After supper she proceeded along with her master to make the 
necessary preparations for her departure. The horses were ordered 
to he in readiness at four in the morning. Before separating for the 
night, she repaired to Count Christian’s apartment. He slept tran- 
(piilly, and Supperville, who wished to quit the dreary abode, asserted 
that he had no longer any remains of fever. 

“ Is that perfectly certain, sir? ” said Consuelo, who was shocked at 
his precipitation. 

I assure you,” said he, “ it is so. He is saved for the present^ 
but I must warii you that it will not be long. At his time of life, 
giief .s not so deeply felt at the crisis, but the enemy merely gives 
w?y to return with greater force afterwards. So be on the watch, foi 
you are not surely serious in determining to surrender your rights.” 


C O N S U E L o. 625 

“I am perfectly serious,” said Consuelo, “and I am astonished 
that you do not believe in so simple a matter.” 

“ Permit me to doubt, madam, until the death of your father-in-law. 
Meantime, you have made a great mistake in not taking possession of 
the jewels and title-deeds. No matter; you have doubtless your 
reasons, which I do not seek to know ; for a person so calm as you 
are does not act without motives. I have given my word of honor 
not to disclose this family secret, and I shall keep ray promise till you 
release me from it. My testimony may be of service to you when the 
proper time comes, and you may rely on my zeal and friendship. 
You will always find me at Bareith, if alive; and in this hope, count- 
ess, I kiss your hand.” 

Supperville took leave of the canoness, after having assured her of 
his patient’s safety, written a prescription, and received a large fee — 
small, however, he trusted, in comparison with that which he was to 
receive from Consuelo — and quitted the castle at ten o’clock, leaving 
the latter indignant at his sordidness. 

The baron retired to rest, better than he had been the night before; 
as for the canoness, she had a bed prepared for herself beside Count 
Christian’s. Consuelo waited till all was still; then when twelve 
o’clock struck she lighted a lamp and repaired to the chapel. At the 
end of the cloister she found two of tlie servants, who at first were 
frightened at her approach, but afterwards confessed why they were 
there. Their duty was to watch a part of the night beside the young 
count’s remains, but they were afraid, and preferred watching and 
praying outside the door. 

“ And why afraid ? ” asked Consuelo, mortified to find that so gen- 
erous a master inspired only such sentiments in the breast of his at- 
tendants. 

“ What would you have, signora? ” replied one of these men, una- 
ware that he was addressing Count Albert’s widow; “ our young lord 
had mysterious relations and strange acquaintances among the world 
of spirits. He conversed with the dead, he found out hidden things, 
never went to the church, ate and drank with the gipsies — in short, 
no one could say what might happen to any one who would pass the 
night in this chapel. It would be as much as our lives were worth. 
Look at Cynabre there ! They would not let him into the chapel, and 
he has lain all day long before the door without moving, without eat- 
ing, without making the least noise. He knows very well that his 
master is dead, for he has never called him once, but since midnight 
was struck, see how restless he is, how he smells and whines, as if he 
was aware his master was no longer alone.” 

“ You are weak fools!” replied the indignant Consuelo. “If your 
hearts were wanner your minds would not be so feeble; ” and she en- 
tered the chapel, to the surprise and consternation of the timid do- 
mestics. 

Albert lay on a couch covered with brocade with the family es- 
cutcheons embroidered at the corners. His head reposed on a black 
velvet cushion, sprinkled with silver tears, while a velvet pall fell in 
sable folds around him. A triple row of waxen tapers lit up his pale 
face, which was so calm, so pure, so manly, that a spectator would have 
said he slept peacefully. The last of the Riidolstadts was clothed, ac- 
cording to family custom, in the ancient costume of his fathers. The 
cornet of a count was on his head, a sword was by his side, a buckler 
at his feet, and a crucifix on his breast. With his long black hair and 
beard, he seemed one of the ancient warriors whose eflSgies lay thick- 


626 


C0N3UEL0, 


ly scattered around. The pavement was strewn with flowers, and per 
fumes burned slowly in silver censers, placed at each corner of his last 
sad resting-place. 

For three hours Consuelo prayed for her husband, and watched his 
final repose. Death had made his features more sad, but so slightly 
altered them, that often while she admired his beauty, she forgot that 
he was dead. She fancied even that she had heard the noise of his 
breath, and when for a moment she left to breathe the perfume of the 
censers and watch the flames of the torches, she fancied that she saw 
a vague tremor and heard the light undulation of the 'drapery. She 
at once drew near him, and examining his mute mouth and pulseless 
heart, abandoned all fugitive and desperate hopes. 

When the clock struck three, Consuelo arose and imprinted on the 
lips of her husband the first last kiss of love. 

‘‘ Adieu, Albert! ” exclaimed she, completely carried away by a kind 
of religious excitement ; “ now you look directly into my heart. There 
are no clouds between us, and you know how I love you. You know 
that I abandon your body to a family who will look on it without 
emotion, yet I do not on that account extinguish an immortal mem- 
ory and deathless love of you. You know that no careless widow, 
but a kind wife, leaves your abode, and that you live forever in her 
heart. Adieu, Alberti As you said, death has intervened and appar- 
ently separated us, only to again unite us in eternity. Confiding in the 
faith you taught me, certain that you have deserved the blessing and 
the benediction of God, I shed no tears for you; and cannot think of 
you under the false and impious image of death. Albert, you were 
right in saying that ‘ Death is not’ — 1 feel the truth in ray heart.” 

As Consuelo spoke, the curtains, which were at the back of the 
catafaco, became visibly agitated, ami opening, at once exhibited Zden- 
ko’s pale face. She was fiightened at first, having always looked upon 
him as her mortal enemy. There was, however, in kis face such an 
expression of gentleness, that when he reached out his rough hand, 
she could not but clasp it. 

“ Let us swear peace over his coffin, my poor child,” said he with a 
smile; “ you are a real daughter of God, and Albert is satisfied with 
you. Go I now he is happy and sleeps kindly. I have forgiven him, 
you see, and come back as soon as I saw he was asleep — now I will 
not leave him. To-morrow I will take him again to the cavern, and 
we will talk of Consuelo. Consuelo de mi alma, go to sleep, my child 
— Albert is not alone. Zdenko is, and always will be with him. He 
is happy with his friend — misfortune is borne away, evil is destroyed, 
and death is overcome. The thrice-blessed day is come. ‘ Let the one 
who has been injured, salute you.’ ” 

Consuelo could bear no longer the infrantic joy of the poor mad- 
man. She bade him an affectionate farewell, and when she opened 
the door of the room let Cynabre rush to his old friend, who had call- 
ed and whistled for him. 

“ Come, Cynabre — I will conceal you under your master’s bed,” 
said Zdenko caressingly, as if it had been his child. “ Come, Cynabre, 
here all three of us are, and we will never part again.” 

Consuelo went to awaken Porpora. She then went on tiptoe into 
the room of Count Christian, and passed between his bed and Wen- 
ceslawa. 

“Is it you, my daughter?” said the old man, without any exhibi- 
tion of surprise; “ 1 am glad to see you. Do not awaken my sister, 
for she is sound asleep, thank God ! Go, sleep yourself. I am calm I 
My son is saved, and will soon be well.” 


C O N S U E L O. 


527 


Consuelo kissed his white hair, his wrinkled hands, and hid the 
tears, which might perhaps have destroyed his illusion. She dared 
not kiss Wenceslawa, who, for the first time in three weeks, slept 
soundly. 

“God has terminated grief,’’ said she, “by its very excess; may 
they long he weighed down by the heathful burden of fatigue! ” 

A half hour afterwards Consuelo, the heart of whom was crushed 
at the idea of leaving the noble-hearted old man — passed, with Por- 
pora, through the portcullis of the Giants’ Castle, without even re- 
membering that the vast mansion, the grates and bars of which had 
enclosed so much suffering and so much wealth — had become the 
property of the Countess of Rudolstadt. 


Those of our readers who are too wearied from having followed 
Consuelo through all her dangers and perils, now may rest. Those 
who yet have courage to venture farther — in another romance just is- 
sued, in uniform style to this volume, entitled “ The Countess of 
Rudolstadt,” — will read the story of the sequel of her wanderings, 
and of what became of Count Albert after his death. 


THE END. 


GEORGE SAND’S BEST WORKS. 

Each work in this Series is Unabridged and Complete. 


George Sand is, after Rosseau, the one only great French author who 
has loo'lced directly and lovingly into the face of nature, and learned the 
secrets which skies and waters, fields and. lanes, can teach to the heart that 
loves them. Gifts such as these have won her the unrivalled -place she 
holds in literature. There is hardly a woman' s heart anywhere in the 
civilized world which has not felt the vibration of George Sand’s thrilling 
voice. Justin McCarthy. Galaxy.” 


CONSUELO. A Love Story. By George Sand. Translated by 
Fayette Eobinson. One volume, duodecimo, Library Edition, 
cloth, gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, cloth, gilt, 
price $1.00, or same edition in paper cover, price 75 cents. 

THE COUNTESS OF RUD OLSTADT. The Sequel to 
“CoNSUELO.” By George Sand. Translated by Fayette 
Eobinson. One volume, duodecimo. Library Edition, cloth, 
gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, cloth, gilt, 
price $1.00, or same edition in paper cover, price 75 cents. 

INDIANA. A Love Story. By George Sand. With a Life of 
George Sand. One volume, duodecimo. Library Edition, cloth, 
gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, cloth, gilt, price 
$1.00, or same edition in paper cover, price 75 cents. 

JEALOUSY; OR, TEVERINO. By George Sand. With a 
Biography of the Distinguished Authoress. One volume, 
duodecimo. Library Edition, cloth, gilt, price $1.50. 

FANCHON, THE CRICKET ; OR, LA PETITE FADETTE. 
By George Sand. One volume, duodecimo. Library Edition, 
cloth, gilt, price $1.50. Or a square 12mo. edition, paper cover, 
price 50 cents. 

MONSIEUR ANTOINE; OR, FIRST AND TRUE LOVE. 
By George Sand. With Eleven Illustrations. One volume, 
octavo. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE CORSAIR. A Venetian Tale. By George Sand, author of 
“ Consuelo.” One volume, octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 

THE LAST ALDINI. A Love Story. By George Sand. One 
volume, octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 

SIMON. A Love Story. By George Sand, author of “Consuelo.” 
One volume, octavo, paper cover. Price 50 cents. 


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents. 
Copies of any one or more, or all of the above books, will be sent to any 
place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers, 

T. B. PETEESON & BEOTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa, 


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